


Sanguimancer

by MindfulWrath



Series: Vital Ruins [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blood Magic, Bloodplay, Disembowelment, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eye Trauma, M/M, Mind Control, Pulling teeth, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Torture, dubcon, finger trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parvis found a little book with a little name and a lot of notes, and a fascinating little orb that bites him sometimes. Bored of spending his time with Martyn, he goes to find the owner of the book--but finds him a lot less willing to accept an apprentice than he'd hoped.</p><p>(AU wherein Rythian invented blood magic, and Strife never came upon Parvis to start the Blood and Chaos series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The book was warm and heavy in his hands. A note on the front panel had brought him here, to this run-down little shack in the middle of nowhere, and he hadn't thought much of it until right just now.

Parvis gulped. There were lights on inside—someone was home, and he wasn't sure if he hoped it was the owner or not. Puffing out his chest and steeling himself, he strode up to the door and knocked.

"One second!" someone called from inside. There were tapping footsteps, and then the door opened.

A pair of glowing violet eyes blinked at Parvis, set above an aquiline nose and a black scarf. They crinkled in a smile.

"Parvis, right?" Rythian said.

"That's me," Parvis confirmed, inflating. "I'm not surprised you've heard of me. I'm very important, you know."

"Of course. Come in, I was just rearranging my essentia." He stood aside and presented the house. Parvis stepped in, eyeing him.

"That sounds a bit dirty," he said.

Rythian's raised his eyebrows. "Does it? Maybe you should get your ears cleaned. Do you want something to eat or drink? I think there's stuff in the pantry."

"Yeah, all right," Parvis said gamely. "What kind of stuff?"

Rythian made a noncommittal noise. "Ehh, probably _moldy_ kind of stuff at this point. I haven't looked in a while."

"Get all your meat fresh, do you?"

"Sure, let's go with that." Rythian led him to a small back room with a large hole in the floor. Strange vapors and tingles of power and the top of a ladder protruded from the hole, and there was light at the bottom. "You'll have to walk around the pit, I'm afraid, the pantry's on the other side of it."

Parvis lit up. _"Ooh,_ what's in the _pit?"_

"Oh, just some thaumic stuff. Essentia, infusion altar, that kind of thing." His eyes glittered. "Would you like a tour?"

With the book completely forgotten in his hand, Parvis agreed emphatically.

The electric sense of power in the air grew denser as they descended the ladder, until it was fairly crackling off of Parvis's skin.

The room at the bottom of the ladder was brightly lit, the floor covered in a pale mist that was more like cobweb than fog. There was a huge stone altar in the center of the room, sparking with multicolored lightning and humming with power. The walls were lined with jars of fluid, each of which seemed to be moving slightly under its own power, each a unique and foreign color. Looking at them made Parvis's head hurt. The mist was climbing the walls behind them.

"So, this is my enchanting room," Rythian said. "The big thing that looks like an altar is the altar. I haven't grounded it in a while, so I wouldn't touch it if I were you. Various essentia—" he made a sweeping gesture towards the shelves of jars— "which I also wouldn't touch, although mostly just because I just got done cleaning them."

Parvis peered at one of the jars. The fluid inside was a blue so bright it seemed to have gone off the end of the spectrum. It shied away from him as he came closer.

"It looks tasty," he said. "I want to drink it."

"You could," Rythian allowed.

Parvis gasped and turned to him, delighted. "I _could?"_

"If you didn't mind a slow and agonizing death, you absolutely could."

"Oh," he said, deflating. He reached out to prod the jar, then thought better of it. "So what's all this for?"

"Understanding the fundamental mechanics of the universe," Rythian answered casually. "It's a lot less impressive than it looks. It could be _made_ to be impressive—swords that call up tempests with every swing, armor impenetrable by anything but other thaumaturgy—but that's not what I'm using it for, so."

"You're not? Why not?"

Rythian shrugged. "I don't need to. The thing is, when all your neighbors know you could wipe them off the face of the earth on a whim, they don't tend to give you any reason to do it."

Something hot and dark ignited in Parvis's chest. "I _bet_ they don't. Did you have to demonstrate? Was it cool?"

Rythian's eyes narrowed in amusement. "Oddly enough, there wasn't anyone else here when I arrived, and no one else has decided to stay. So no, no demonstrating. The cows have been very pleasant neighbors."

"Oh," said Parvis, sagging. "But what's the _point_ of all this, then?"

"I told you. Understanding the fundamental mechanics of the universe."

"I thought that was all pretty much figured out already."

Rythian's expression went dark and cagey, and he turned away. "Sometimes the fundamental mechanics of the universe get changed," he said, "and then some work has to be put in to figuring out what's shifted, and where to."

"Sounds like an awful lot of work," Parvis said.

"It is."

"Sounds like it's been very lonely," he added.

"It is." Rythian turned and headed for the ladder. "That's all that's down here, anyway, apart from a mine I never use anymore. I'm pretty sure there's _something_ edible in here _somewhere."_

"Sounds like you could use an apprentice," Parvis concluded.

Rythian froze, going inhumanly still upon the instant, as though time around him had stopped.

"No," he said at last, coming back to life and continuing over to the ladder.

"Aw, why not?" he asked, tagging along as Rythian began to climb.

"Because I don't take apprentices." He paused. "Anymore."

Parvis stuffed the book under his chin, the better to climb the ladder.

"But you could," he pointed out. "I'm a very _good_ apprentice. You could ask Strife. Or Martyn. Or anyone, really. I've apprenticed with _lots_ of people."

"Then I'd think you would have had enough of it," Rythian said, stepping back out into the pantry. Parvis followed, and when he took the book out from under his chin, he stood looking at it for a moment.

"I found this," he said, giving the book a flourish. "It's got your name in it."

Recognition flickered across Rythian's face, just for a moment, followed immediately by puzzlement.

"Let me see that?" he said, holding out a hand. Parvis gave him the book.

"It was very interesting," Parvis said, fidgeting. "I read most of it. Until it got too confusing. Okay, I read about the first three pages, and _then_ it got too confusing so I decided I'd just come find you instead, because you wrote it, so you must be able to understand it."

"Oh, right," said Rythian, hefting the book in his hand. "I remember this."

The book burst into flame. Parvis squeaked in alarm, snatching at the ashes. He got only burned fingers for his trouble.

"There," said Rythian, dusting the ash off his palm. "Thank you for bringing that back, I had wondered where it had gotten off to."

"What—but—you—you can't just _burn_ it!" Parvis sputtered.

"I can't? I was under the impression that I just did. I'm going to start some water boiling, do you want anything hot to drink? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?"

Rythian turned and busied himself at the counter, igniting the stovetop with his fingertips. Parvis glared at his back and went right on sputtering.

"There was a lot of stuff in that book!" he cried at last.

"I know," Rythian confirmed. "I wrote it."

"Then why did you just— _b_ _urn_ it?"

"Because I know what I wrote in it. You didn't answer me about hot drinks, by the way."

"Look, I've—I followed some of it, you know. And I found _this!"_

Rythian looked over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. Parvis fumbled around in his pack until his hand closed on the cold, smooth orb. He pulled it out and thrust it at Rythian.

To his surprise, Rythian shied away, his eyes fixed on the yellow sphere.

"Have you used it?" he demanded, and his voice had grown deep and rough.

"Er, well, I mean, _sort_ of," Parvis said, feeling suddenly much less confident. The orb had grown heavier in his hand, possibly from the sheer weight of Rythian's attention.

"Have you or haven't you?" Rythian snapped.

"It's—I haven't been able to use it _for_ anything," Parvis said. "Just when I focus on it too hard sometimes it, like, _bites_ me—"

Something struck his hand so hard it made his whole arm sting. The orb smashed on the floor, and all the air rushed out of Parvis's lungs, as though someone had punched him in the gut. He felt his knees fold, and then Rythian caught him under the arms and helped him stagger to a chair.

When his head stopped spinning, he found himself holding a mug of something dark and hot, with Rythian perched next to him on the arm of the chair. Parvis's skin tickled wherever Rythian's gaze touched it.

"Hot chocolate," Rythian said, indicating the mug with a flick of one long-fingered hand. "I figured it was a safe bet."

"What just . . . happened?" Parvis asked, frowning.

"The orb was bound to you, so I broke it. I didn't think you'd used it _that_ much, but apparently I was wrong. You'll be okay. Just a little light-headed for a while."

"Oh," said Parvis. "What d'you mean, _bound to me?"_

Rythian sighed. "The less you know about this, the better."

"I read the book," he declared, lifting his chin. "I know plenty already."

"You don't," Rythian told him, "because if you _did,_ you would have known not to keep pouring blood into that orb."

"I didn't— _pour_ blood into it!"

"In the professional opinion of the person who wrote that book, yes, you did. How long have you had it?"

Parvis shrugged. "I dunno, a couple of months, maybe?"

"And how often did you—sorry, did _it—bite_ you?"

"I dunno, maybe once a day?"

Rythian cursed and grabbed Parvis's wrist. Parvis just managed to let go of his mug in time to keep from sloshing hot chocolate all over himself. Rythian stared at his palm so hard it made Parvis's bones ache.

"You're an _idiot,"_ Rythian spat, dropping Parvis's hand. "And you're lucky you're not dead."

"Look, will you just _tell_ me what happened?"

"You poured what was probably sixteen full minutes of your life into that _thing,"_ he spat the word out like it was a mouthful of lye, "and then broke it all over the floor."

"Hey, _you're_ the one who broke it!" Parvis objected.

"You'd be better off dead," Rythian said grimly, "than enslaved to _that."_

 _"Enslaved?_ I wasn't _enslaved_ to anything!"

"You would have been."

"And what's _that_ anyway? What was that book about?"

Rythian clenched his jaw and looked away. He was silent for a time, then answered:

"Sanguimancy. Blood magic."

 _"Oooh,_ that sounds _fun,"_ Parvis said, grinning.

Rythian slapped him, backhanded, so hard it made his ears ring. Hot chocolate sloshed all over his leg and hand, and he nearly tumbled right over the other arm of the chair and onto the floor. Blinking, he sat back up and rubbed his jaw.

"Ow," he said. His whole right arm had broken out in a hot sweat from simple proximity to Rythian.

"Don't _ever,"_ Rythian growled, "say that to my face again."

Parvis shuddered. "Fine, but you didn't have to _hit_ me."

Rythian took a deep breath and sighed it back out, and the room cooled significantly, as though a radiator had been turned off.

"This isn't something to be toyed with, Parvis," Rythian said at last. "It's more dangerous and volatile than any other form of magic. It . . . changes people. There is a very good reason I've burned all of my notes and destroyed every—" His head snapped around, and Parvis's skin started itching. "Where did you get that orb?"

"The orb?" Parvis said, struggling to keep up. He set the mostly-empty mug on the floor. "Er, I found it. In a dungeon. With the book."

Rythian cursed fervently and shot to his feet. He started pacing, hands clasped behind his back.

"Where?" he demanded.

"I dunno, under Martyn's tree stuff, I guess. Around there. It was in a chest."

"Was there anything _else_ in there?"

"Just some, like, gold, a couple of diamonds—"

"Anything you didn't recognize? Slates, daggers, anything like that?"

"No. Why, are they important? For the blood magic?" He shivered. "Ooh, it just sounds so _cool."_

Rythian rounded on him, and it was like taking a dart to the forehead.

"Don't make me hit you again," he said. Parvis raised his hands.

"Please don't! I'm just curious, that's all!"

"Be curious about something else," Rythian snapped, and went back to pacing. "And you have no idea how it got into that chest?"

"Not a clue," said Parvis. "Is it a conspiracy? Did someone steal stuff from you? _Ooh,_ can I help you get revenge? I like revenge."

"Shut up," Rythian said, "or get out."

Parvis pouted, folding his arms. "Look, I'm just trying to help."

"You're failing."

"You're very rude, you know that? I'm a guest in your house—if you can even _call_ this a house—and all you've done is be mean to me. I just wanted to be your apprentice, that's all."

Again, Rythian froze, this time with one foot in the air. He shook himself and continued his pacing.

"And I told you _no."_

"If you _don't_ make me your apprentice," Parvis threatened, "I'm just going to figure it out on my own."

"I'll send flowers," Rythian said.

"You'll what?"

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "To your _funeral."_

"I won't die. I know lots of stuff, I'm very good at not dying."

"Not that good."

"I'm not going to die because of blood magic."

"No," Rythian said, fixing him with that sharp-ended gaze again, "you'll die because I'll kill you."

Parvis shrank back into himself. "Aw, that's not fair," he whined.

"It is, actually," he replied. "Because there would come a time, eventually, when you would _wish_ you were dead and no one would be able to help you."

"You're so dramatic," Parvis told him, sticking his lip out.

"I get that a lot."

"I'm not leaving until you make me your apprentice."

Rythian threw his hands up in the air. _"Fine,_ you know what, fine. I'll teach you thaumaturgy. For _no other reason_ than so that I can keep an eye on you and make sure you're not doing anything _else."_

Parvis whooped, leaping out of the chair.

"I'm going to be a wizard!"

"You're going to be a pain in the ass," Rythian grumbled. "And your first task as apprentice is to clean up all the glass in the pantry and the hot chocolate in here."

"Aw, _what?"_ Parvis whined, sagging. "That's no fun!"

Rythian smiled at him. "That's what you get for _annoying_ me."

"I don't think I want to be your apprentice anymore. You're weird and creepy and _mean."_

"Parvis," Rythian told him, "you have no _idea."_

* * *

 

It was late, long past midnight, and Parvis was awakened from a light and fretful sleep by the sound of Rythian's door opening. Wrapped in the blankets of Rythian's own bed, Parvis debated whether or not to pretend he was still asleep. He decided it would be best for everyone involved if he didn't make this awkward by sitting up and making conversation. Rythian had, most likely, just left something important in his room and was sneaking back in to get it.

The bed creaked, and something heavy fell on Parvis.

"Oh, _shit,"_ said Rythian, and rolled off onto the floor.

Parvis made an undignified, confused noise, and sat up. Even from this distance, he could smell the fumes on Rythian's breath.

"I forgot you were here," Rythian said. His eyes were casting roving lights around the room.

"Are you . . . drunk?" Parvis asked, peering at him. In the dim light, he could tell only that Rythian was not wearing his mask—nothing about what might be underneath.

 _"Shhhh,"_ Rythian admonished, putting a finger to the approximate region of his lips. "I'm supposed to be handling it well."

"Handling _what_ well?"

Rythian sighed and stretched. "Everything."

"Is this . . . about Zoey?" Parvis hazarded.

"It's _always_ been about Zoey," Rythian said. "I mean, hasn't it? I'm an idiot, Parvis. I'm really very stupid."

"I'm sure you're not. What happened?"

"Oh, she met someone and now they're girlfriends," said Rythian. "And I'm—I'm very happy for them, because Zoey's very happy and I'm sure the other—other girl—Fiona—is happy too, because who wouldn't be, but I'm also very stupid, because, you see, I didn't _know._ And I could have asked. If I'd said—anything, anything at all, but I—I'm very stupid."

"Ohhh," said Parvis, nodding. "Didn't know she was into women, is that it?"

"And I could have asked. I could have said _anything._ But I'm a coward—a very stupid coward, and also I thought it was so obvious, because it was obvious to _me,_ and maybe it was and she was just too nice to say anything—she's very nice, but I wish she would have said something—not that she was ever obligated—"

"I dunno, that can hurt, too," said Parvis. He sighed, propping himself up on one elbow. "Take Strife, for example. Straight as an arrow. He didn't even want to _work_ with me, just because I think he's very attractive." He clicked his teeth. "What a waste."

"Waste? What's a waste?"

"Oh, nothing, just . . . I don't know, I really wanted him to be gay. It would've worked so well on him. It's a waste." He sighed. "Same about you, really."

Rythian laughed. "I'm gayer than—than rainbows," he said.

"But . . . you and Zoey—"

 _"Everyone_ is pretty and it's terrible," Rythian told him.

He brightened. "Am _I_ pretty?"

"Pretty annoying."

"That's mean. You're mean."

"I know. It's fun."

Parvis paused, chewing his lip. "Rythian," he said, "why won't you teach me blood magic?"

"Because it's heroine for the soul," Rythian answered immediately, "and nothing will _ever_ feel as good."

"That doesn't sound bad at all. That sounds _awesome."_

"No, Parvis, _nothing._ Will ever feel as good. Ever again. The—the best you'll ever get is . . . 'pretty nice.' Forever. Think about it for ten seconds."

Parvis thought about it.

"I—"

"That was only three. Give it seven more."

With a certain amount of resentment, Parvis thought about it for another seven seconds.

"How d'you know?" he asked.

"Because I—" He broke off, then started over in a different tone of voice. "Because I've been there. In all the— _that._ And it . . . almost destroyed me."

"But it didn't," Parvis pointed out. "And what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? So why are you so . . . _scared_ of it?"

"I didn't say it almost killed me," Rythian said. "I said it almost _destroyed_ me."

He frowned. "What's the difference?"

Shaking his head, Rythian said, "It's bad for you. All of it. For everyone. And I'm not going back there for anything."

"You keep saying _there._ Is there, like, a place?"

"It's a state of mind."

"What, like, being drunk?"

Rythian laughed again. "No," he said. "Not like that at all."

There was a long lull, filled with Rythian's breathing.

"You know, you _can_ sleep up here," Parvis offered, "if you want. There's room."

"I like the floor," said Rythian. "The floor understands me."

"How drunk _are_ you?"

"I will not remember this conversation."

Parvis whistled. "All this because of Zoey?"

"No," Rythian sighed. "All this because of me."

 


	2. Chapter 2

Parvis waited an entire week before breaching the subject of blood magic again. Things had been going well—Rythian had built him a little extension on the house, helped him make his own wand and his own table, given him the materials to construct all the little bits and bobs a proper thaumaturge would need, and generally been friendly, generous, and helpful.

They were out in the fields, giving Parvis a chance to scan and learn the component essences of living things, when Parvis decided the seas were calm enough to rock the boat a little.

"So this _victus_ stuff," he began, peering through the purple-tinted glass of his thaumometer at Rythian.

"Don't point that at me," Rythian said, gently turning the device aside. "What about it?"

"Well, it's life, right?"

"More or less, yes."

"So life has energy."

"Absolutely."

"Energy a person could, I dunno, harness?"

Rythian's attention prickled against the side of his face, and he shrank from it.

"If you have a question," he said coldly, "you may as well ask it up front and stop wasting my time."

Parvis fidgeted. "Well, it's just . . . this thaumic . . . stuff, it's awfully complicated, right? Lots of books and memorizing and stupid made-up words—"

"All words are made-up," Rythian pointed out.

"But these are _extra_ made-up. And I'm not saying I'm not smart enough for it, it just seems like a lot of work for—for not a lot of profit."

"Your point?"

"It . . . seemed like the whole blood magic thing went a bit faster."

"Oh yes," said Rythian. "Much faster. And you live much faster, and you _die_ much faster."

"It didn't kill you, though, did it," Parvis grumbled.

"Not for lack of trying, I promise you. How's your wand for vis? There's a node over there on the next hill. You could scan it, too, there's a lot to be learned from nodes."

"Why do you always change the subject?"

"Maybe," Rythian said, and his voice had an edge to it that could cut steel, "it's because I don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah, but _why?_ It's just magic, it can't've been _that_ bad."

"It was," Rythian said. "And if you ask me one more question about this, your apprentice duties for the next _month_ will consist of mucking out the cow pens by hand."

 _"What?"_ Parvis cried. "That's bullshit!"

"Yes," said Rythian. "Exactly."

"You're just scared I'll get stronger than you with blood magic," he said, scowling.

"Since that wasn't a question," Rythian said, starting off towards the next hill, "I'll give you a shovel and a wheelbarrow."

"I _could_ just quit being your apprentice, you know," Parvis threatened.

"Nothing in the world would make me happier," Rythian called over his shoulder.

"Yeah well . . . well then I won't," he grumbled, and stomped off after him.

* * *

 

"Okay," Parvis muttered, wiping sweating palms onto the matched set of moist patches on his jeans. "Okay, all right."

He picked up the little glass-bladed dagger, stared at it for a good fifteen seconds, and put it down again.

"Won't even hurt," he said, wiping the sweat off his palms. "Much. Probably. And it's not like he'll _know,_ will he. Abandoned the place _ages_ ago, he's got no reason to even look down here. _And_ he's drunk again. Probably passed out by now. No, _definitely_ passed out by now. He'll never know. And it's not going to hurt, either."

Still muttering to himself along these lines, he picked up the knife again and took it to the squat gray altar. There was no aura of power, like he'd thought there would be, and it didn't even look intimidating. It was just a thick, low block with a little depression in the top of it.

He couldn't fathom why he thought it looked _hungry._

"All right, enough fucking about," he told himself. "Get . . . fuckin' _Parv'd."_

He drew the blade across his palm. It left a little pink line and drew no blood.

"Aw, come _on,"_ he hissed, examining the blade. It _looked_ sharp, and he'd done his best to sharpen it. The tip, especially, seemed formidable. He tested it with his finger.

There was a brief, sharp, pricking sensation, and suddenly his head was spinning and darkness swarmed across his eyes, but he barely noticed because an incredible rush flooded through his mind and body—the exhilaration of a first kiss, the toxic warmth of drunkenness, the shivering delight of hands against bare skin—and he had to steady himself against the altar.

It gurgled.

Blinking the stars from his eyes, Parvis looked down at it. There was a considerable amount of blood swirling in the depression in the top of the altar.

"Is that . . . _mine?"_ he squeaked, stomach churning. He examined his shaking hand—there was a bead of blood on the tip of his finger, nothing more. It could have just been his imagination, but he fancied his skin was also a shade paler.

Parvis moved away from the altar, sucking on his finger, taking deep breaths. He put his back to the wall and sat down, still feeling light-headed.

"Could've gone worse," he said to himself. The rush had faded, but there was still a warmth in his veins, an echo of the feeling. He found his eyes constantly drawn to the altar, which wasn't doing anything, but which he felt he should be watching anyway. Parvis shivered. If he concentrated on the trailing edge of that feeling, he could _just about_ pull it back. . . .

Eyes closed, lips parted, the copper taste of blood still heavy in his mouth, Parvis was first alerted to the fact that anything was amiss by the altar exploding.

Needles of stone peppered his face and arms, and the shockwave cracked his head against the wall. He screamed, and then kept on screaming as the pain of having shards of rock embedded in his eyes reached his brain. He writhed, clawing at his face and only managing to make the pain worse, kicking his heels against the floor. The afterimage of lightning scarred the darkness behind his eyelids, and his ears were ringing the rest of the world into silence.

Something burning hot closed around his throat and lifted him from the floor and silenced his screaming. He could feel his skin blistering even as his throat was crushed, and struggled fruitlessly against it, trying to pry it off and only managing to burn his fingers.

He was slammed into a wall and felt several bones crack. Blood was crawling down his face, his head was spinning, his lungs burning.

He was slammed into the wall again, and then a third time, and each time something else cracked or broke, and even though he was already blinded he could feel his mind going dark, and his lips formed soundless pleas as the pain filled up his entire world.

The white-hot _thing_ around his throat released, and he dropped to the ground, coughing and gasping and still fumbling at his eyes, and now he could hear again the sound of ragged breathing reached him. A hand fisted in his shirt and hauled him up, and something cold and smooth was jammed between his lips, chipping one of his teeth.

 _"Drink,"_ Rythian growled.

Parvis whimpered. The bottle between his lips tipped upward, forcing his head back. Warm liquid poured into his mouth, and he tried to spit it out. The hand in his shirt moved to his jaw, holding his mouth shut like a vice.

 _"Drink,"_ Rythian said, "or _drown."_

He gulped down the liquid before it got into his sinuses—there was still more of it than he could swallow, and it dribbled out of the corners of his mouth and swelled up into his nose, but only when he started choking and inhaled a mouthful of the stuff did Rythian take the bottle away and allow him to cough it out again. As soon as he'd taken a single clear breath, though, the bottle was back between his teeth and he was forced to guzzle the bitter liquid again.

Finally, though, the bottle emptied, and Rythian allowed Parvis to slump to the floor. He could feel his bones clicking into place, could feel the splinters of stone crawling back out of his eyes and skin, but by then his mind had gone soft and distant and the pain was only an incessant background roar that followed him all the way down into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

Parvis woke up, rolled over, and threw up everything in his stomach.

"Oh, _fuck,"_ he whimpered.

When he felt he could move again, he pushed himself up onto one elbow and took stock of his surroundings. He was in his room, alone. All of his personal belongings had been stuffed haphazardly into a box and dropped at the foot of his bed. Parvis groaned and heaved himself out of bed, tottering to the bathroom. He rinsed out his mouth, picked out his least-favorite towel, then went back and cleaned up the mess beside his bed. He threw the towel out, then peeled himself out of his dusty, bloodied clothes and bathed as best he could. His whole body ached, and every movement made his head throb. The soap stung his skin, and the steam from the bath made his eyes water.

Feeling somewhat more human, he dressed, then set off to find Rythian.

The door to Rythian's bedroom was closed, and Parvis stood outside it for a good minute, thinking of what to say.

He decided _I'm really, really fucking sorry, please don't kill me_ was a good start, and knocked.

"Fuck off," Rythian snarled from within.

"Look, I'm—Rythian, I'm really—"

"Fuck _off."_

"I'm _sorry,_ Rythian, I—"

"Don't make me tell you again."

"Look, would you just _listen—"_

"No."

Parvis, in a fit of pique, shoved the door open. "I'm _trying_ to apo—"

He pulled up short.

Rythian was sitting cross-legged on his bed. His head was bowed. His mask was off, revealing a plain and unremarkable face. He was trembling visibly.

There were three deep, straight cuts on the inside of his left arm, bright red and dripping blood onto his leg. There was a knife in his hand, poised to draw another red line across his skin.

"Turn around," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the knife, "shut the door, and don't say a fucking word."

Feeling like he was going to be sick again, Parvis turned around, shut the door, and tottered away.

He stayed in his room for the rest of the night, and didn't dare to speak even to himself.

* * *

 

"Made you breakfast."

Rythian spared him a withering glance. Parvis shrank back, holding the spatula in front of himself as though he could hide behind it.

"It's . . . bacon and eggs," he hazarded. "'Cause um . . . I thought you might be hungover."

Rythian paused, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw, then sighed and lowered himself into his chair at the table. His mask was down around his neck, and when he spoke, Parvis could see flashes of black and pointed teeth.

"If there's coffee," he said, "I will allow you to live."

"There's, like, an entire pot."

Rythian held out a hand. Parvis gave him the entire pot of coffee. Rythian wrapped himself around it, taking occasional sips. Parvis slid a plate of bacon and eggs to him, then slipped into his own chair with his two slices of dry toast.

"I um," said Parvis. "I'm sorry."

Holding up a finger, Rythian took another deep sip from the coffee pot. A black tongue peeked out from between his lips as he set the pot back down.

"When this is empty," he said, "you can talk."

Parvis turned his eyes to his breakfast, hyper-aware of how loudly the toast crunched between his teeth, one of which was still chipped and sent a twinge of pain through his jaw whenever something touched it.

He continued staring at the empty plate until, with a _thunk_ of finality, Rythian put the coffee pot down on the table between them. Parvis risked a glance up. Rythian was leaning his elbows on the table, his fingers laced together, staring at his own hands. Parvis couldn't help but notice that the permanent cloth wrappings on one of Rythian's arms was stained with red and brown.

"You can talk now," Rythian said.

Parvis gulped.

"I . . . I wanted to say, um. I'm sorry. For—for what I did. Down in the mines. It was wrong and it won't happen again."

Rythian said nothing. Parvis fidgeted.

"It's just, I—I wanted to _know._  What I remembered, I mean, 'cause I remembered a lot of stuff from that book. And it wasn't so bad, I mean, really. Until you blew up the, y'know, the thing and nearly killed me. Because that was awful and you didn't have to do it."

Violet eyes flicked up to Parvis's face, and he shrank.

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No," Rythian said, and sighed. "You're right."

"I—I am? I mean. Yes! Yes I am!"

"Don't overdo it."

"Sorry."

"I . . . overreacted," Rythian admitted. "I wasn't thinking clearly, and I handled things badly because of it."

"You were drunk, you mean."

Rythian glared at him. Parvis held up his hands.

"I'm just going to shut up now," he said.

Rythian looked back to his own fingers.

"I have been trying to protect you," he murmured, "from what sanguimancy will do to you. I . . . I hadn't considered that I might have to protect you from _me._ And I . . . am sorry. What I did to you was cruel and unnecessary, and I regret it deeply."

"It's um . . . it's fine," said Parvis, caught off-balance. A thought occurred to him that made his breakfast sit uneasy. "Um, just . . . that, um, what you were doing to—I mean, that, _that—"_ He gestured to Rythian's freshly bandaged arm— "that wasn't because of me, was it?"

He shook his head. "No, Parvis, _that—"_ He mimicked Parvis's gesture— "is one of the many delightful side-effects of quitting sanguimancy."

Parvis blinked. "Oh," he said.

"It's a stress-response. Habituated. Also I was drunk, and having cravings like you wouldn't _believe._ Sticking metaphorical empty needles in my arm helps keep me on the wagon. In three weeks I get my nine-month chip." His face went dark and hard, and it had that same indefinable _hungry_ look that Parvis had attributed to the blood altar. "But it's a pale and hollow consolation."

He raised his eyebrows. "There's a Blood Magic Anonymous?" he asked, dubious.

"There's me," Rythian admitted, "and Zoey checks in."

"Oh," said Parvis. "What happens if you fall off?"

"Hopefully," Rythian said, "I have the sense to kill myself."

Parvis started. "That's a bit extreme, don't you think?"

He shook his head. "When I quit the first time, I didn't know how much it would _hurt._ I would never be able to quit _again._ Once was too much."

"You didn't tell me it was, like, super-addictive," he scolded, frowning.

"One: you wouldn't have believed me," Rythian said, "and two: you probably would have found the concept exciting." He fixed Parvis with a knowing look. "You probably still do."

He shifted in his seat. "N-no, I don't—"

"It was good, wasn't it." There was no question in his tone. "It was so good, you'll be thinking of it in bed for weeks."

Parvis flushed and opened his mouth to reply, but Rythian went on, relentless and emotionless.

"But it will get harder and harder to remember, and then your hands will start shaking and your eyes will fog up and you'll have to go back for another dose. And the second time will be good, but it won't be enough. And there will be a third time, but by then it hardly feels like anything anymore and you have to try something bigger, and then _that_ will be almost enough, and it _never stops,_ Parvis. Living becomes intolerable because it is never _enough._ Because nothing feels good except pouring yourself into the magic and letting it pour back into you. And it will swallow you whole, and you will be _grateful."_

He stared. Rythian wound down and stilled, his breathing the only indication that he was still alive.

"I'm . . . sorry," Parvis said at last.

"Give it two weeks," Rythian replied. "You'll hate me."

"But—but it was just _one—_ I mean, I'm not going to go into—into what, magic-withdrawal—just because of one little prick on the finger!"

"You will," Rythian assured him, "and you will hate me."

"Why, 'cause you won't let me do any more blood magic?"

"Exactly."

"After everything you just said, you really think I'm that stupid, that I'm going to hate you for not letting me get myself into that mess?"

"Yes."

Parvis sniffed and folded his arms, lifting his head.

"I'll show _you,"_ he said.

* * *

 

 _"I hate you,"_ Parvis snarled, curled up in Rythian's armchair, swaddled in six blankets and still shivering.

"I know," Rythian said.

"Why can't you j-just leave me _alone?"_ he demanded, digging his fingernails into his own arm.

"Because as long as you don't do any more blood magic, this will be over in a week."

 _"Fuck_ your w-week, I'm _dying."_

"Eat something, you'll feel better."

"I'm not h-hungry, you—you—"

Rythian folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Go on," he said, "I'll wait."

"You f-fucking _junkie."_

"Oh. Ouch. You've cut me to the quick. It hurts so much, coming from the man shivering in a chair and craving blood magic so badly he can't eat."

"I'm g-going to fucking m-murder you," Parvis spat.

Rythian grinned at him. His teeth were pitch-black and serrated.

"Go on," he invited. "I'll wait."

Parvis went for him. Rythian caught him when his knees went out from under him, and Parvis was left clutching Rythian's shirt in trembling fingers, cheek pressed to his chest, with Rythian's arms around him.

Another shiver superseded the others, and Parvis drew closer to Rythian.

"You're doing this because you're desperate for endorphins," Rythian told him.

Parvis managed to get his feet underneath him and fumbled his arms around Rythian's neck. He swayed where he stood, and likely only managed to stay upright because Rythian was keeping him that way. He nuzzled into Rythian's neck and sighed.

"You're so _warm,"_ he murmured.

"So is the fire, and also you can sit down and eat something with the fire."

"Could—could _kneel_ down and, y'know," Parvis said, and laughed helplessly.

Rythian sighed. "Oh, dear."

"You must get so _lonely_ out here," he mumbled, nuzzling around for an uncovered patch of skin on Rythian's neck. He was draped against him, their bodies flush.

Rythian's hands came off of his back and settled on his hips. Parvis made a pleased little noise that turned into a whine when Rythian pushed him back down into his chair and wrapped him up in his blankets again.

"I'm going to go get you some soup," Rythian told him, "and I'm going to lace it _liberally_ with something to make you sleep."

"Aw," Parvis pouted. He was starting to shiver again. "N-no fun."

"It was never going to be fun, Parvis."

"It _could've_ been."

"You're only doing this because you're desperate for endorphins," Rythian said again, and left him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Rythian, Parvis reflected, was too attractive for his own good.

He had fallen asleep in the armchair, his head tipped back against one cushy arm, his legs draped over the other, one hand folded over his stomach and the other dangling to the floor. The angle of his head had parted his lips, and the dark crescents of his closed eyes were possessed of a subtle draw that Parvis could neither define nor describe.

Stepping with care, Parvis crossed from the doorway to Rythian's side and stood looking down at him, listening to him breathe, memorizing every line of his face.

His fingers, of their own accord, touched Rythian's cheek.

Rythian woke and brushed Parvis's hand away, sitting up and blinking owlishly.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, rusty-voiced.

"Uh," said Parvis, whose entire body had gone hot with shame, "a—a few hours."

Rythian held out his hands to Parvis. "Show me your hands." This had become his standard greeting over the past four days. Dutifully, Parvis placed his hands in Rythian's upturned palms. Rythian made a thorough examination of Parvis's hands and wrists, back and front, and squeezed each fingertip. Parvis focused on keeping his knees locked and his breathing steady.

Rythian dropped Parvis's hands unceremoniously and got to his feet, stretching.

"I'm making coffee, do you want any?" he said, shuffling towards the kitchen.

"Not really," said Parvis, trailing along.

"Good, more for me. Have you eaten?" It took him three tries to get his fingers to spark and light the stovetop.

"Yeah," Parvis said vaguely. He was distracted by the back of Rythian's neck, which looked really, immensely kissable. The next thing he knew, he was standing just behind Rythian, wrapping his arms around his waist and planting a kiss just under his ear.

"Parvis, don't do this," Rythian warned, an edge of desperation in his voice. "You don't mean it."

"I do," Parvis assured him, leaning into his stiff back. "I really, super do."

"Well, you'll  _ regret _ meaning it later."

"I don't regret things, generally," Parvis said, and kissed his neck again. "Don't think I'll start any time soon."

"It could have been anything," Rythian muttered to himself. "It could have been sugar.  _ It could have been sugar." _

Parvis placed another kiss on Rythian's neck, lingering. "I think you're plenty sweet enough."

"Oh, for Christ's  _ sake," _ he grumbled.

"If you don't want me doing it, why haven't you told me to stop? You like it, admit it."

"Because you'll do it  _ anyway, _ and then I'll have to hurt you."

"I won't," Parvis said, pouting. "I'll stop if you tell me to stop. I can be good."

"No, you can't," Rythian snapped. "If you'd latched onto sweets, you'd be chewing raw sugar cane by now. If you'd latched onto alcohol, you'd be drinking yourself into a coma. This is what the withdrawal  _ does _ to you, Parvis,  _ you literally can't stop. _ My telling you to knock it off won't do anything but make you feel worse about it later."

"But you could  _ make _ me stop, if you wanted."

"I want you to take a moment and think about what you just said."

"What? It's true."

"It communicates a thorough disrespect for other people's boundaries. It is not my job to  _ make _ you stop doing something I don't like. It is your job to understand that I don't like it and stop  _ yourself." _

Parvis pouted. "You didn't say you didn't like it."

"I thought I had made it very clear."

"But you said I  _ couldn't _ stop."

"Prove me wrong."

He hesitated, biting his lip, then unwound his arms from around Rythian's waist and took a step back. The kettle whistled. Rythian attended to it as though nothing had happened.

"I'm . . . sorry," Parvis said at last.

"Good," said Rythian. "You seem like you're improving. It should pass in another couple of days."

Parvis went and sat at the table and fiddled with his fingers. His lips were still tingling. Rythian brought him a cup of coffee and a potato.

Parvis stared at the potato in his hand.

"What's this?" he said.

"It's a potato," said Rythian, sliding into his own chair on the opposite side of the table with the rest of the coffee.

"Why've you given me a potato?"

"Generally you're supposed to eat them."

_ "Raw?" _

"It isn't raw. I got bored while you were sleeping and cooked a bunch of potatoes."

"Oh. But . . .  _ plain?" _

"I wasn't  _ that _ bored."

"I told you I ate already."

"I don't believe you. Eat your potato."

Parvis sighed and bit into the potato. It crunched, and filled his mouth with an acid, bitter taste. He spat it back out, sputtering.

"This  _ is _ raw!" he cried, waving the offending tuber.

Rythian laughed at him.

* * *

 

The cavern was dark, cast in shades of flickering orange by the torch in Parvis's hand. Splinters of stone crackled under his feet as he made a slow circuit of the room. The floor, he noted, was cracked, a spider-web of fractures with its center in the charred circle where the altar had once stood. The ceiling bristled with fragments of stone.

It was difficult to tell, in the sputtering half-light, but Parvis thought he could see footprints burned into the floor.

Something glittered in a far corner. Parvis investigated, his heart in his throat, his ears ringing from the strain of listening to the silence.

He picked the little glittering thing up and put it in his pocket.

As a memento, he told himself, as a reminder, because it was broken, and he would have been, too.

Never mind that the shattered edge looked ever so much sharper than anything Parvis could have engineered.

He extinguished the torch and fumbled his way back up the stairs in the dark, and went back to his room and changed out of the clothes that smelled, however faintly, of oily smoke. The glittering thing went from one pocket to another, because Rythian went through his things regularly but never,  _ ever _ touched any part of him but his hands.

And then he went and found Rythian, and woke him up, and showed him his fingertips with a smile.

* * *

 

Two days later, Rythian got so drunk he couldn't stand up.

This would not have been a problem if Parvis hadn't  _ also _ been incredibly drunk, ostensibly in celebration of beating the withdrawal but actually because he still desperately wanted to get his hands on Rythian and very much wanted to be held irresponsible for his actions. He had been forced to confront the fact that, despite what the mage had said, only the compulsion had faded, and not the desire, and probably the reason he had latched onto Rythian when his brain was craving endorphins was because he already really,  _ really _ liked Rythian.

This would likely  _ also _ not have been a problem if Rythian hadn't decided to take his shirt off, deposit himself in Parvis's lap, and start crying.

As things stood, there was a problem.

"I wish you'd tell me what's the matter," Parvis said, petting Rythian's hair.

_ "Matter, _ nooo, noth—nothing's  _ matter, _ nothing  _ ma—matters, _ Parvis, 's all  _ stupid _ and nothing  _ matters _ and we're all—all going to die anyway so—so what  _ matters, _ hm?"

The effect of all this nihilism was rather spoiled by the incessant hiccups that had laid claim to Rythian's diaphragm.

"This's about Zoey," Parvis said.

Rythian hit him in the arm. It stung, somewhere underneath the drunken numbness.

_ "No," _ said Rythian, in the insolent tone of a child.

"It  _ is," _ Parvis asserted. "It's  _ always _ about Zoey."

"No!" Rythian said again. The mask had come off with the shirt, and Parvis momentarily lost focus when Rythian's tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "'S not ab—about Zo—about  _ her. _ Just—just—just . . . there are bigger things than—than  _ her, _ like the whole universe, and—and dying—"

"Why d'you do this, if it upsets you so much?"

Rythian sniffled. His lip curled. Parvis noted, somewhat absently, that his teeth appeared to be made of something very similar to obsidian, and were smooth and glossy apart from the serrated edges.

"'Cause. . . ." he began, and hiccuped violently. Tears started to gather in his eyes again. "'Cause it's  _ something. _ Feeling—feeling  _ something. _ And—and it hurts, but—better than nothing. Better than nothing, right? Nothing else, is there. Hurts, or—nothing. 'S all there is. But I—I like it. I like hurting."

"That's stupid," Parvis pointed out. "Why not just . . . do things that don't hurt?"

Rythian fixed the approximate location of Parvis's face with a penetrating glare.

"Things don't just— _ not hurt," _ he said.

The eye-contact, vague and unfocused though it was, had set something off in Parvis's chest.

"I don't think kissing hurts," he declared.

To his dismay, Rythian started crying again.

"Yes it  _ does," _ he moaned, landing another blow on Parvis's arm. "Yes it  _ does _ and your stupid—face is too  _ pretty." _

"Well, but you said you  _ liked _ hurting, so really you could—"

Rythian moved very fast for someone who was too drunk to be vertical. He was also, contrary to expectation, very  _ precise, _ as though his body was moving on instinct alone and had disregarded any input from his thoroughly marinated brain.

Which was how Parvis found himself, very suddenly and very heatedly, being kissed by Rythian. There was a hand fisted in his hair, and one clutching his shirt, and it was sloppy and damp and tasted powerfully of peach liqueur, and it was over before Parvis really had any time to appreciate it because Rythian subsided to his intoxicated ground-state of lying on his back and crying.

And then he froze, that stopped-time stillness that took him from time to time, when his head came to rest on the cold lump in Parvis's front pocket.

"I'm—" Parvis began, panicking.

Rythian grabbed a handful of his face and dug in his fingernails. Parvis stopped trying to talk.

"What," Rythian said darkly, "is in your pocket?"

"Nnthn," said Parvis.

Rythian's grip tightened. Parvis swore he could feel his cheekbones creaking.

_ "What," _ Rythian said again, "is in your  _ pocket?" _

Parvis whimpered. His teeth were starting to ache.

Rythian stilled again, and when he came back his hand slid bonelessly off of Parvis's face. He rolled out of Parvis's lap, onto the floor, and began a concerted crawl towards the bathroom.

"'M gonna go . . . be sick," he said casually.

"O-okay," said Parvis. "I'll, um. Be here."

"You're a dead man walking," Rythian told him earnestly.

Parvis didn't have a response to that.

* * *

 

In the morning, Rythian was gone. Nursing a hangover and a bruised face—the origin of which he could vaguely recall—Parvis searched for him, and then for any trace of him, and then for any trace of a trace of him.

He found nothing.

It was as though Rythian had simply  _ vanished, _ turned to air in his bed while he slept. Everything, so far as Parvis could tell, was exactly where it had been the night before, right down to the bundled and discarded shirt and the empty bottle of liqueur.

Even the abandoned cavern where Parvis's ill-fated foray into blood magic had begun and ended showed no trace of any occupation but Parvis's.

After three hours of fruitless searching, Parvis gave up, made himself breakfast, and started on his chores.

* * *

 

Six mornings later, Rythian returned.

There was no fanfare; Parvis came out of his room and shuffled into the kitchen, and Rythian just  _ was; _ sitting in his chair, nursing half a pot of coffee, sparing Parvis only the briefest of glances.

"Where've  _ you _ been?" Parvis demanded, stopping in his tracks.

"You're up early," Rythian said, as though Parvis hadn't spoken; as though, in fact, the past week hadn't happened at all. "I was going to start another pot of coffee for you, but you can have a cup out of this one if you want."

"I—you—I—it's been a  _ week!" _ Parvis sputtered.

Rythian looked at the coffee, and then at Parvis, and then at the coffee. He raised his eyebrows.

"But it's not even cold."

_ "Quit pretending nothing's happened!" _

Parvis's anger froze solid and cracked in several places in the face of Rythian's glare. It went on for three seconds too long.

"Do you want coffee," Rythian said, "or not?"

Parvis deflated, and dragged himself to his chair.

"Sure, all right," he said. Rythian got a mug down from the cabinets and filled it with coffee. Parvis accepted it from him, wrapped his hands around it, and stared at it.

"I was thinking we should get some pigs," Rythian mentioned. "They're basically garbage disposals. Intelligent, easy to keep. It would take a little more effort, of course, but I think it would be worth it."

"What for?" Parvis asked despondently.

This was met with silence, which went on so long that it drew Parvis's eyes up. Rythian was looking at his own hands, chewing his lip.

When he looked up, a chill ran down Parvis's spine. He could  _ swear _ that his eyes had been bluer the last time he'd seen him. . . .

"Show me your hands," said Rythian.

"S-sorry?" said Parvis.

"Show me your hands," he repeated.

Warily, Parvis held out his hands. Rythian looked them over, keeping his own hands firmly clasped around the coffee pot.

"I haven't, er. . . ." said Parvis.

"Yes, I can see that," Rythian preempted him. He sighed and sat back. "Maybe chickens."

"Rythian, what are you  _ talking _ about? Pigs, chickens, my hands—what's this all about?"

Parvis thought he knew, but he didn't  _ dare _ to hope that he was right.

Shrugging, Rythian said, "You'll need a source of blood that isn't yours."

He gasped. "You'll teach me?" he said, although it came out as more of a hoarse squeak.

"I . . . will provide guidance, if asked to," Rythian allowed.

"Why? What changed your mind? Did it have something to do with you being gone for a week? Where did you go? Did you have a life-changing—"

"It has come to my attention," he interrupted, his voice clipped, "that there is nothing I can do that will  _ stop _ you from practicing sanguimancy, short of killing you. Which I . . . would prefer not to do."

"You  _ like _ me," Parvis said, grinning.

"I owe a debt to the universe," Rythian corrected, "and you're a convenient service project."

_ "Suuuure _ I am," he sang. "You  _ like _ me, admit it."

"Actually, Parvis, I  _ loathe _ you. But I remember being where you are, and . . . no one should have to go through it alone. Not even you."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Rythie," he said. He was glowing with pleasure.

"Please keep in mind that it is very much within my power to break every bone in your body and feed you to the pigs. Alive."

"Aw, you're so sweet."

"Parvis," Rythian said, as sweetly as Parvis had him painted, "you will be up to your knees in pig shit by the end of the week."

"I will not," he retorted, the smile falling off his face.

"If you want to learn sanguimancy," he said, "yes, you will."

* * *

 

"That was fast," Rythian remarked dryly. He was perched on the edge of the blood altar, arms folded.

Parvis flushed. "I was, er, just coming to find you. To tell you I was done."

One eyebrow twitched up. "Were you? We must have  _ just _ missed each other."

"Y-yeah. Yeah! Must've done." He picked at his fingernails. "Er, so, okay, I've done all my chores."

Rythian waved a hand magnanimously. "Don't let me get in your way."

"Well, you are, sort of, sitting on the altar, so—er, you  _ are _ a bit in the way."

"Yes," said Rythian.

Parvis heaved a sigh. "Oh, this is some kind of  _ lesson, _ isn't it. You're  _ teaching _ me something."

"You say that as though it isn't what you wanted."

"It is—I mean, it's not—but it  _ is, _ just not—like  _ this!" _

"And what kind of teaching  _ did _ you want?"

"I dunno, I guess I was expecting, sort of, the same way you taught me all that thaumy stuff."

Rythian grinned. Parvis had never seen him do it with the mask off before. It was such an inherently  _ predatory _ expression on him that parts of Parvis's hindbrain kicked into action and forced the whole of him to take a step back.

"If you wanted to learn thaumaturgy," Rythian said, "you should have stuck to thaumaturgy."

"That doesn't have anything to do with anything," Parvis pointed out.

"And if you want me to  _ move," _ he continued, still smiling, "you will have to  _ move _ me."

There was a majority vote in Parvis's head to storm over to Rythian and throw him bodily to the floor; but the insistent yammering of the lizard-brain kept his feet nailed to the spot. He considered that, perhaps, trying to physically overpower Rythian would be very much like getting into a fistfight with a shark in open water.

That line of thinking sparked something off in Parvis's mind, and he drew the half-broken glass dagger from his pocket. Rythian's eyes snapped to it the moment it was in sight and remained fixed there even as Parvis waved it.

"Well, I'm sure you won't mind if I get started a bit early, then," said Parvis. "Only I  _ can _ do some stuff from over here, can't I."

Rythian's smile had receded back to whatever depth it lived in. He was wearing that  _ hungry _ expression again, and in a way that was worse.

Before he could second-guess himself, Parvis set the dagger to his fingertip and pressed until his skin broke. Again, there was that wave of dizziness and the wash of mind-numbing pleasure that followed directly on its heels. He was aware that he had made the sort of noise that was not fit for mixed company. It didn't matter much, because nothing mattered much just then.

He wondered, idly, what would happen if he pricked himself  _ again, _ and it was no sooner thought than done.

Parvis's knees gave out, whether from the intense light-headedness or the even more intense  _ everything else, _ he could not have said.

In fact, he could not have said much of anything other than  _ oh, God yes, _ which he did say, or rather moan, and his numbing fingers tightened on the dagger because his head was filling up with  _ more _ and he could not have stopped himself if he'd wanted to.

An iron hand closed around his wrist. He dropped the knife. Rythian slapped him and he barely felt it. He laughed.

"Look at me."

"Give it back," Parvis breathed, enraptured. His skin tingled wherever Rythian touched him.

"I said  _ look at me, _ you stupid idiot."

Parvis looked at him.

Rythian wore rage well, like an old and tailored coat that fit both form and motion. It lit his eyes with inner fire and brought out the strength of his jaw, imbued him with a vital energy that flaked the rust from his movements.

Parvis wanted him so much it  _ hurt. _

And then Rythian dragged him by the wrist to the back of the room and dunked his entire upper half in a deep basin of icy water, and that  _ also _ hurt, but in a very different way. Parvis came up gasping and sputtering and too dizzy to stand. Rythian set him down against the wall and sat next to him.

"Well," he remarked, and sighed. "I'll give you this: you moved me."

"I don't feel so good," Parvis said. His lips had gone numb, and he was starting to shiver.

"You wouldn't. I thought the ice water was a nice touch. I put it in last night."

"Oh," said Parvis. Another shiver ran through him. His knees were starting to lodge some very firm complaints with him, and blood was trickling down his finger. "But I  _ did _ feel good, though."

"I could tell," Rythian said. "Hence the ice water."

The blood altar gurgled, and Parvis looked at it. Red-black smoke was curling from its surface. From such a low angle, he couldn't see how much of his blood was swirling in the bowl.

"I messed up, didn't I," Parvis decided.

"Yes," said Rythian. "Suicide by sanguimancy works a lot better when no one's around to stop you."

He bristled. "I wasn't trying to—"

"Stop. No." Rythian held up a hand. "We're not going to set this precedent. Let's try that again. Yes. You messed up. It's an easy mistake to make. We'll work on it."

This gave him pause.

"You mean, you  _ don't _ want to tease me? No bickering or anything?"

"You are incapable of respect," Rythian told him, "and I am incapable of not causing serious bodily harm to people who disrespect me."

"That sounds like  _ your _ problem."

"Thank you for so elegantly illustrating my point. I'm not going to start arguments with you, Parvis, because the whole point of this exercise was to have you live through it. The fewer opportunities I give you to drive me to homicidal ideation, the better for both of us."

"You're no fun at all," Parvis accused.

"If you wanted Fun Rythian," he replied, "you should have gotten here a year ago."

 


	4. Chapter 4

"I want to try again," Parvis said, over dinner.

"Of course you do," said Rythian, without looking up.

"I want to try again _tonight."_

"It's only been a week. You're not well enough."

"I am too."

The flash of teeth that showed when Rythian talked was certainly intentional.

"You haven't learned anything since last time. It won't be any different."

"I haven't _learned_ anything because you haven't been _teaching_ me. That's _your_ fault, not mine."

"What, precisely, am I supposed to be teaching you? Your complete lack of self-control isn't something I can teach out of you."

"That's not fair. I've got _loads_ of self-control. I'm more in control of myself than you are."

Rythian smiled to himself. "Trust me, Parvis, my life would be much easier if I had control of you."

It was a good thing Parvis was already sitting down, because his knees turned to jelly at that remark. Covertly, he folded his hands in his lap.

"I _want_ to try again," he insisted.

"What, exactly, do you want to try? There's more than enough—blood—" the hesitation on the word was almost imperceptible— "for a simple spell, but your use of the word _again_ leads me to believe that what you _want,_ Parvis, is to get unreasonably high."

He fidgeted. "No. No! I can do spells. Tell me what to do and I'll do them right now."

"If only you were this eager about everything else I tell you to do."

"I mean it, Rythie, I want to—"

Rythian's fork made little _whumwhumwhum_ noises where it stuck in the table next to Parvis's hand. Parvis jerked his hand back with a yelp.

"Parvis," Rythian said calmly, "we've talked about this."

"Stop _throwing things_ at me!" Parvis cried, yanking the fork out of the table and brandishing it at Rythian.

"Stop calling me _Rythie,"_ he recommended. He reached out and plucked the fork from Parvis's fingers, blew the splinters off, and went right back to his dinner.

Parvis pouted at him until it became clear that it was having no effect.

"What're the spells?" he asked.

"Infusions, mostly," Rythian said, "or equivalent. The first thing you'll most likely want is a blood orb. Useful, and more importantly, so easy to make I could do it in my sl—"

He broke off suddenly, and a shadow crossed his face.

"Easy enough to make that even _you_ could manage it in only a couple of tries," he continued.

"Are you scared you're going to start doing blood magic in your sleep?" Parvis asked, fighting down a grin.

"Next time I throw this fork at you," Rythian said, "it's going through your hand."

"You're angry because I'm right, aren't you. _Aren't_ you!"

"You've seen me angry, Parvis, and you know this isn't what it looks like."

"But you _are_ scared you'll start doing blood magic in your sleep."

Rythian did not respond.

Parvis sat back and folded his arms.

"All right, then, I've decided. Your assignment is to figure out a way to teach me—whatever it was you wanted me to learn—"

Rythian choked. "My _assignment?"_

"Yes. You've got to figure out a way that I can do blood magic without messing it up."

"No no no. No. _You_ do not give _me_ assignments."

"But I just have."

"Your lack of self-control is not my problem!"

Parvis grinned at him. "Now it is."

Rythian fumed for a moment, then stood so suddenly that he knocked his chair over. He stalked out of the room, and then stalked back in a moment later and presented Parvis with a little sheet of paper.

"Memorize it," he said.

"What is it?" Parvis asked, taking the sheet. There were three scribbled lines of handwriting on it.

"There will be a test. Memorize it." And he turned his back on Parvis and started cleaning up his dishes.

Parvis squinted down at the paper.

"What's a _tinulen?"_

"A—that says _timber."_

"I can't read your handwriting."

"You had an entire _book_ of it!"

"It wasn't all scribbly then! Write it again, but better this time."

There was the distinctive sound of a plate cracking in half.

"As of now, Parvis," Rythian said, a hint of thunder in his voice, "for every word you say to me until tomorrow morning, I'm taking one of your teeth."

Parvis opened his mouth to remark upon the fact that after thirty-two words he was off the hook, and then thought better of it. Instead, he peered down at the paper in his hand.

"This is nonsense," he objected.

Rythian, without turning around, held up three fingers.

"But it doesn't _mean_ anything!"

He touched his pinky and ring finger to his thumb, keeping the other two fingers raised. _Seven._

"You're not _really_ going to start knocking my teeth out, are you? Only I've probably already said enough words that you've run out of teeth, or _now_ I have, or maybe now, or at the very least _now—"_

There was a blur, and a _zwiff_ sort of noise, and Parvis's left hand bloomed with a red flower of pain. Rythian turned back to the dishes.

"I think you will find, Parvis," he said, in the voice of a man who has gone clean through anger and come out the other side, "that I don't make idle threats."

Parvis, cursing fervently, yanked the fork out of his hand.

"You can't just knock all my teeth out!" he objected. Sweat was beading on his forehead. He got out of his chair and started backing away.

"There's very little _knocking_ involved," Rythian assured him. "I know I have some pliers around here _somewhere. . . ."_

"But I'll have no teeth!"

"Maybe it will persuade you to keep your mouth shut."

"Just because _your_ teeth are all fucked up doesn't mean _mine_ have to be!"

Parvis knew, before the words had even finished exiting his mouth, that he'd made a terrible mistake. Rythian went still, and the very air around him darkened. Parvis clapped a hand over his mouth and wondered if he could make it out the door before he died.

"Parvis," Rythian said, so softly he was scarcely audible.

"I'm sorry!" he blurted. "I didn't mean it, I'm really—"

"Parvis," he repeated, in exactly the same tone.

Parvis whimpered.

"You're going to walk away now," Rythian informed him. "And next time I see you, you will have memorized that list."

"Yessir," Parvis said, and ran.

It was a full five minutes before he realized that he'd called Rythian _sir._

* * *

 

Parvis had anticipated torments of all kinds and calibers—he had expected, at the very least, to leave his next encounter with Rythian without any teeth. He had memorized the list—mostly—and had left his room with the air of a man walking to the gallows.

What he got was far worse than anything he could have anticipated.

Rythian had come up behind him, a silent ambush as Parvis put the kettle on. Feather-light hands rested on Parvis's hips, and a kiss on his neck sent lightning down his spine.

"Did you memorize that list?" Rythian inquired. His breath was hot on Parvis's skin.

"Wh-what are you—?" Parvis stammered, his heart pounding.

Rythian kissed him again. "Teaching. Did you memorize that list?"

"I did," said Parvis. Rythian was warm against his back, and the kettle was rumbling.

"You should hurry," Rythian said.

"R-right. Right, okay. Uh . . . right. Here goes. Tim—"

Rythian kissed him again, lingering. Parvis's breath stalled out in his throat.

"Go on," Rythian prompted.

The kettle had started to steam. Parvis swallowed.

"Uh. Timber. Elucidate. Laundry. Luster."

Another kiss, and Parvis had to brace himself against the counter. The kettle was making overtures at whistling.

"Ahah. Hm. Zeppelin. Overarching. Extra. Yest— _oh God."_

Rythian's fingertips had slipped under the waistband of Parvis's trousers, cold against his bare skin.

 _"Wrong,"_ Rythian growled, and upended the kettle on Parvis's hand.

* * *

 

Even after a whole healing potion, his hand still stung for days afterwards, and his throat stayed raw from the screaming. He avoided Rythian at all costs, and likewise avoided anything hot, heavy, or vaguely sharp-looking.

In short, he locked himself in his room and did not come out until he was so hungry he couldn't see straight.

The house seemed empty, but Parvis crept about like a thief anyway, constantly glancing over his shoulder. He ate cold meat and stale bread, stole a bottle of alcohol from the cabinet (raspberry this time), and snuck back into his room.

Rythian was sitting cross-legged on his bed. He was wearing the mask again.

"Did you memorize that list?" he asked.

"No," Parvis blurted, although it wasn't intended as an answer but rather as a plea.

Rythian shrugged and stood up.

"I think I might blast your altar into oblivion again," he said.

 _"No,"_ Parvis snarled, taking a threatening step forward.

Raising an eyebrow, Rythian said, "Are you going to stop me?"

"I _meant,"_ he said, struggling with himself, "please . . . don't. Look, why're you _doing_ this?"

"I was given an _assignment,"_ he said, and again there was that sense that _anger_ was something he'd left on the side of the road several miles back.

Parvis winced. "I'm _sorry,_ all right? I didn't mean it like that, you know I didn't."

"Oh, really?" said Rythian. "How _did_ you mean it, then?"

"I don't—look, it's not _important,_ the point is I'm sorry."

"No," Rythian said, "you're frightened."

Parvis puffed himself up. "I am not," he declared.

"Really?"

Rythian moved faster than he had any right to, coming from a standing start. Parvis screamed and tried to hide his entire body behind the stolen bottle. Rythian's hands closed, very gently, around his wrists.

"You _look_ frightened," Rythian murmured.

"Don't hurt me," Parvis begged.

Rythian grinned. The mask did nothing to diminish the effect, simply because Parvis already knew what was under it. It was the difference between seeing circling grey fins and looking back a moment later and _not_ seeing them.

"Have you memorized that list?" he asked. His voice was low and placid.

"I—not really—"

"Try."

He started to pull away. Rythian's grip tightened by the smallest of degrees. Parvis stopped trying to get his hands back.

"I'm _sorry,_ Rythian," he croaked, searching the implacable half-face for any sign of mercy.

"Still just frightened," Rythian corrected. "The list, Parvis."

He cleared his throat, eyes darting. The new skin on his hand started itching.

"Er. T-timber. Elucidate. Laundry. Luster. Uh. . . ."

Rythian's grip tightened again. Parvis's heart attempted to jackhammer out of his chest.

 _"Uh._ Zeppelin, overarching, extra, yesterday, mother—"

"Wrong!" Rythian chirped. Parvis screamed and tried to yank his hands out of Rythian's grasp, dropping the bottle.

He succeeded in hitting himself in the face, because Rythian had put up no resistance and had, instead, caught the falling bottle before it shattered on the floor.

 _"Imbalance,_ then _mother,"_ said Rythian. He planted a cloth kiss on Parvis's cheek. "Do better next time."

Rythian walked out and closed the door behind him. Parvis sank to the floor, his bones all turned to jelly. He buried his face in his hands and giggled until the shaking stopped.

 _"Fuck,"_ he said.

* * *

 

Rythian's next ambush came while Parvis was eating breakfast. He draped himself over Parvis's shoulders and spoke softly into his ear, cloth-covered lips brushing cartilage. Parvis, tired and disoriented, made it to word five of the list before making a mistake. Rythian knocked his breakfast onto the floor.

Then it was in the new pig pens, and Rythian had been at a safe distance, and Parvis had gotten all the way through ten words before making a mistake, and Rythian had set his feet on fire.

And when Parvis crawled into bed that night, two healing potions deep and still not walking right, he'd suddenly found himself in Rythian's arms, and this had scrambled his brains so badly that he only got the first two words out before he lost all coherence.

"Parvis," Rythian scolded, wrapping a hand around his throat. "You're not even trying anymore."

Fear was chilling all the parts of him that had been too hot, and the memory of pain sharpened his wits.

"Let me try again," he said. He dug his fingers into his mattress.

"You already failed." His grip on Parvis's throat was tightening, slowly, inexorably. His breath ruffled Parvis's hair.

"Timber, elucidate, laundry, luster—"

"Parvis," he warned.

"Zeppelin, overarching, extra, yesterday—"

He was squeezing hard now, starting to crush Parvis's windpipe. Parvis grabbed Rythian's hand and dug his fingernails into the soft flesh at the base of his thumb.

"Imbalance, mother—" he choked.

Rythian kissed him behind the ear and slid his knee between Parvis's legs. If it hadn't been for the hand around his throat, Parvis might well have floated clear off the face of the planet.

"Sundry-octagonal-rampant-run-young- _oh God please—"_

But Rythian had frozen the moment Parvis had reached the end of the list, and then he let go of Parvis's throat and got out of his bed and straightened his shirt. Parvis sat up, reeling.

"I did it," he breathed, and then laughed. "I did it! What do I get?"

Rythian shrugged. He had his back to Parvis, and in the dark he was almost invisible.

"You get to do blood magic again."

Parvis whined. "That's _it?_ After all you put me through—"

"It's what you wanted."

"No it _isn't._ I don't want to do blood magic, I want _you."_ He winced.

Rythian stood in silence. Something must have been backlighting him, because his silhouette looked darker than the rest of the darkness.

"I was given an assignment," he said coldly. "If you're unsatisfied with the results, that's your problem."

Parvis scowled while his stomach shriveled up.

"Is that all this was to you? An _assignment?_ You were supposed to be _teaching_ me!"

"I was."

"You were leading me on!" he snarled, fists clenching on his sheets.

"Had you considered what that cost _me?"_

"I don't _give_ a fuck what it _cost you,_ you didn't _have_ to do it! You had a choice, I didn't! I didn't get to opt out, I didn't—I didn't get to say _no!"_

Rythian went still again.

"And would you have?" he asked softly. "If you had known how my skin crawled every time I touched you, if you had known how _sick_ you make me—would you have told me to stop?"

 _"It's not my job to stop you doing things you don't want to do!"_ Parvis cried, clambering to his feet.

"I was given an _assignment,"_ Rythian snapped back, rounding on him. His eyes blazed in the darkness.

"And there were a million ways you could've done it without _hurting me!"_

"When the magic blows up in your face, a little boiling water will seem like—"

"That's not what I mean and you know it!" He stopped, shaking, breathing short and heavy. "It's cruel and pointless, what you did to me. Cruel and pointless, just like you."

To his surprise, Rythian looked away.

"It . . . seemed effective," he said.

"Oh, fuck _you,_ and your _effective._ You can't just—just _play_ with people, and expect them to lie down and take it! You can't expect them to feel bad for you because you were hurting _yourself."_

"I'm sorry," Rythian murmured.

"That's not _good_ enough," Parvis retorted. "Nothing you do will _ever_ be good enough!"

The light flickered as Rythian blinked, rapidly and irregularly. He turned away.

"I'm sure you can manage first-tier spells without my supervision," he said. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Sure, if I feel like being _fucked_ with, I'll come running," Parvis spat.

Rythian left without a further word.

* * *

 

After a few hours of tossing and turning, Parvis decided that sleep was not an option and instead set to work crafting himself a blood orb. The hardest part, oddly enough, was not the central diamond—which Parvis dug out of a chest after only five minutes of searching—but the clay to form the sphere around it. He had to trek down to the river in the dark and search by torchlight for an appropriate bank. By the time he had the sphere in the proper shape to carve in the runes, the blue light of dawn was starting to creep over the horizon.

He realized, with no small amount of chagrin, that although he recalled that six runes were necessary, he had no idea what those runes were. He set the orb down and stared at it, propping his chin on his gray-stained hands.

"He did say _whenever_ I needed him," he mumbled to himself, glancing out his window at the brightening sky. He sighed.

"Better not," he decided.

By the time he finished breakfast, the sun was up, and a premonition of disaster had settled in the back of his head. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Rythian walk in. The coffee was getting cold.

After another hour of finding ways to occupy himself, Parvis gave up. He knocked on Rythian's door, holding the pot of coffee as a sort of peace offering.

"Rythian?" he called. "I um . . . I've made coffee."

There was no response.

His stomach knotted with dread, Parvis pushed open the door.

The coffee pot fell, shattering, spraying cold liquid and broken glass all over Parvis's legs. Getting through the door was like running through chest-high water, like running in a nightmare, because this _was_ a nightmare, because it _had_ to be.

Because Rythian was lying motionless on the floor, covered in his own blood.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Parvis came crashing down on his knees next to Rythian, his hands fluttering over the body in panic. The insides of Rythian's arms were more wound than skin, rows of short red lines running from wrist to elbow. The ones on his left arm were neat, methodical; the ones on his right were ragged and clumsy. There was blood smeared on his cheeks from wiping away tears. The smell of blood was cut through with raspberries.

Finally finding some presence of mind, Parvis checked for a pulse—he found one, but it was weak and rapid, and Rythian's skin was cold. In a panic, he rushed back to the kitchen and pulled a handful of healing potions from the cabinet. He dropped one on the floor in his mad dash back to Rythian's side, and it was only by sheer luck that it didn't shatter.

Parvis sat Rythian up, one hand on the back of his head. He was limp as a ragdoll and just as responsive. Parvis uncorked one of the potions with his teeth and pressed the bottle to Rythian's parted lips. He poured a drizzle of the pink fluid into Rythian's mouth.

There was a gurgling sound, and Rythian's breath hitched.

Parvis's heartbeat achieved a single tone. His whole body went cold and he fumbled Rythian back onto the floor and rolled him onto his side.

His breath hitched again, and then again, and then the drizzle of potion drizzled right back out.

Tears clouded Parvis's vision, and he stared helplessly down at the bottle in his hand. There had to be _something_ he could do, some way to help that didn't involve accidentally drowning the man he was trying to save.

"What do I _do?"_ he demanded of no one. He cast about for inspiration. All he found was two empty bottles, still reeking of raspberries and alcohol.

Parvis picked up one of the healing potions and shook it.

"How do you even _work?_ What fucking _good_ are you, anyway?"

Rythian made a noise—small, pained, most likely involuntary—and Parvis's head snapped around. He gathered the mage into his arms and Rythian's eyelids fluttered.

"Rythian?" he said, patting his cheek. "Hey, c'mon, _please_ tell me inhaling that stuff actually did something for you."

Rythian only made the little noise again. Parvis snatched up the opened potion and touched it to Rythian's lips.

"Don't fucking breathe it this time," Parvis ordered, choked by the lump in his throat. He tipped the bottle up. Most of what he poured out dribbled out of the corner of Rythian's mouth, but Parvis saw him swallow. His heart leapt, and he tipped out another mouthful of potion.

A few swallows later, and Rythian's eyes opened. They were foggy, unfocused, but the sight made Parvis burst into tears.

"Hey," he croaked, and sniffled.

"Ss . . . Zoey?" Rythian whispered.

The word came down like a hammer on his heart, and Parvis's grip tightened.

"Just . . . drink this, all right?" he mumbled, pressing the bottle to Rythian's lips again.

Weakly, Rythian wrapped a hand around Parvis's. He drank the rest of the potion, and a minute later, some clarity had returned to his eyes.

Parvis opened another bottle and attempted to foist it on Rythian. Rythian pushed it away and tried to extract himself from Parvis's arms. Parvis pulled down the pillow from Rythian's bed and allowed him to lie on the floor with it under his head. He sat back, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

"You should drink that," Parvis said.

Rythian stared at the ceiling, his breathing slow and deep.

"I mean it," Parvis went on. "You lost a lot of blood—"

"No, I didn't," Rythian interrupted. His voice was weak, tired. Resigned.

"But, you—"

"It looks worse than it is. My fingers will be stiff for a few months, that's all."

"You were almost _dead!"_ Parvis cried.

"That would be the alcohol poisoning."

Parvis looked at the two empty bottles, then back at Rythian.

"I'm . . . sorry," he said.

Rythian sighed. "Still just frightened," he said.

"No, I _am_ sorry. I—you did this because of me. _Didn't_ you."

The look he gave Parvis could have withered whole trees.

"You're not that important," he said, turning his eyes back to the ceiling. "I did this because of me."

"But you wouldn't have if I hadn't . . . said all that stuff."

"I'm sure I would have found another excuse somewhere."

Parvis ground his teeth. "Can't you just accept that I'm sorry and stop _arguing_ with me about it?"

"No," said Rythian, "because you'll expect to be forgiven."

"I saved your life," Parvis pointed out.

"Did I ask you to?"

The blood drained from Parvis's face. "You were—over _that?"_

A smile that had nothing to do with happiness crossed Rythian's face.

"Parvis, if I'd been trying to kill myself, I would have been dead hours ago," he said.

"But you just said—"

"Just because I'm not trying to die," Rythian interrupted softly, "doesn't mean I want to live."

Parvis frowned at him. "You're still drunk, aren't you."

"That does tend to be how alcohol works, yes."

"Did you drink both those bottles, then?"

"Both?" He lifted his head, then let it drop back down again. "There was a third one around here somewhere. I must have done something with it."

Parvis rubbed his face. "You're lucky I showed up when I did. You're lucky you're not dead."

 _"Lucky_ isn't the word I would choose."

"Oh, for the love of God, shut _up._ This is—this is _pathetic!_ What'd Zoey think if she saw you like this?"

Rythian went rigid.

"Don't you _dare_ bring her into this," he growled.

"Maybe I will," Parvis said. Gears were spinning up in his head. "Maybe I will, too, and then you'll _have_ to clean up your act."

"That isn't fair," Rythian snapped.

"Well, I suppose you'll just have to suck it up, 'cause life isn't fair."

"To _her,"_ he continued.

Parvis hesitated, the engine of his mind hiccuping.

"Wasn't she bringing you a chip soon anyway? That's what you said, isn't it? You get a Blood Magic Anonymous chip for being good and Zoey checks in."

"Stop."

"I don't think she'll mind coming a bit early, staying for a couple of days—"

_"Stop it."_

"She can sleep in here, since you never do—"

"Parvis, _enough!"_

"Is it, Rythian?" he asked sweetly. "I wasn't sure you knew what that word meant."

Rythian had pushed himself up onto one elbow. He was swaying, glaring at Parvis through bloodshot eyes. They had started to glow again, ever so dimly.

"She will not enter this house while there's sanguimancy in it," he declared. "And if you bring her here anyway, I will nail you to that altar and blow you both into oblivion."

Parvis let this pass, because Rythian _had_ almost died, and he looked like he might keel over again at any moment.

"Yeah, all right, but she _is_ still going to turn up with that chip or whatever. Unless you were kidding about that."

"It's been six weeks since I said that," Rythian said, "and she hasn't come. She isn't going to." He paused, lowering his gaze. "Ever."

"Oh, is _that_ what this is about? Poor ol' Rythie, you lovesick loon."

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: this isn't about anyone but _me."_

"Oh, well then you're a _selfish_ loon."

Rythian glared at him. Parvis's heart skipped a beat.

"Haven't you done enough?" Rythian demanded.

"Not yet," said Parvis, and grinned at him. "But soon."

* * *

 

The letter arrived only four days after he'd made initial contact. He stole it out of the little mailbox he'd set up over the hill—he had no idea how the damn things worked, but they did, and that was all that mattered—and then took the mailbox down, just in case. For good measure, he buried it in the river under almost a foot of sand. He hid the letter inside his shirt and only took it out again when he was sure Rythian was in the middle of some complex thaumaturgy.

 

_Dear Parvis,_

_Oh my good golly gosh, I can't believe I forgot!! It's all been so busy and we've been doing so many things and there's been another mushroom war and we went to space and I guess I just lost track of time and now I feel awful about it so I'll be there as soon as I can. Maybe sooner. I might get there before the letter. Oh, only Fiona says that's not actually possible, but I'll try anyway because lots of things seem impossible that aren't, like stopping the glowy mushrooms from getting wiped out by the red and brown mushrooms who banded together against them because they thought they were aliens and yeah._

_I'll be there super soon, so don't worry!_

_—Zoey_

_P. S. They_ _ are  _ _aliens but that doesn't mean they should all get killed!!_

 

Parvis grinned, folded up the letter, and hid it between his floorboards.

This, he thought, was best kept a surprise.

* * *

 

Two days later, during lunch, there was a knock on the door. Rythian's head snapped up so fast it was a wonder he didn't crack his neck doing it.

"I'll get it," he said, pulling on his mask. As he stood, he threw Parvis a wary, calculating look. Parvis grinned at him, then got up and snuck after him. He wasn't going to miss the look on Rythian's face even if it killed him.

Rythian opened the door, and froze solid. The look on his face, contrary to expectation, was stony and unreadable.

Zoey grinned up at him, waving.

"Hiya, Rythian! Oh my goodness, it's been _ages,_ I'm so sorry I haven't visited but I've been, like, _super_ busy, and you never wrote or anything and I thought you were probably fine and also I guess I just, sort of, lost track of time completely, but it's fine, because I'm here now!"

Rythian had not moved, had not so much as breathed. Parvis was struck with the sudden idea of a _second_ face, underneath Rythian's, on which expressions were flicking past with lightning speed.

Zoey's smile had grown strained.

"Erm, so, you're just kind of standing there, staring creepily, which, I guess, is sort of normal, but it is actually kind of creeping me out. Because it's creepy, and you haven't said anything."

Parvis stepped up and put a hand on Rythian's shoulder.

"Sorry," he said, "he didn't know you were coming. It was a bit of a sur—"

Rythian elbowed him sharply in the stomach, and Parvis folded, wheezing. He stepped back out of arm's reach. Rythian had not taken his eyes off of Zoey, but now that he had animated again, he seemed to be smiling, or something like it.

"Hi, Zoey," he said softly.

"Oh! Uh, is he—all right?" she asked, peering around Rythian. Parvis grinned at her and waved.

"Don't worry, I'm used to it," he said, while his diaphragm gathered its wits.

It was a miracle he wasn't shot dead by the look Rythian fired over his shoulder at him.

"So, um, can I come in, or are we just going to stand on the doorstep? 'Cause, I mean, I don't mind, really, but it was kind of a long trip and I'm pretty hungry—oh, but it's okay if you don't have anything vegetarian, I mean, since you weren't expecting me and everything—"

Zoey continued to gabble, and Parvis watched Rythian fight with himself. Some kind of exterior wall crumbled, and Rythian seemed to shrink by several inches in every dimension. He stood aside and presented the house to Zoey.

"No, no, you don't have to stand on the doorstep all day. I'm sure we can find something for you to eat, if not here then outside somewhere, I don't mind going out looking."

"Oh, you don't have to do that, it's fine, really," said Zoey, coming in and taking in the house with eyes the size of dinner plates. "Y'know, it's actually a really good thing you called me, because this place looks _terrible,_ needs some good interior design—you built this yourself, didn't you? I can tell, because it has no style, just like you."

Rythian sputtered, trailing behind Zoey like a spindly kite.

"It—that's not very—I have _style!"_

"Sure, if you count _gloomy_ as a style. I'm surprised there aren't spiderwebs and stuff everywhere. It's all boring and dull, anyway. I don't mind fixing it up for you."

"No—look, no, there is to be no interior designing, okay? It's _fine,_ I like it just fine how it is."

"I bet _Parvis_ doesn't," Zoey said, as thought she'd scored an irrefutable point.

"Hate it," Parvis said helpfully.

"See?"

"I don't _care_ what Parvis—" Rythian began, and broke off in a growl. He ran a hand back through his hair, looking anywhere but at Zoey. "Look, do you—do you want coffee, or something? Tea? Hot chocolate?"

"Ooh, yes, please," said Zoey. "I hanglidideded most of the way here, it was, like, _super_ cold."

"You did what?"

"Hanglideded. Ed. Hanglid? I've got a hanglider and I flew. Ooh, is this the kitchen?"

She was away before Rythian could stop her, although Parvis saw him try. Parvis sauntered past, grinning at Rythian.

"I had no idea you were such a—"

Rythian _did_ stop him, in the form of a hand clamped so tightly on his arm that it made his bones ache.

"One _word_ about sanguimancy," he hissed, "one _toe_ out of line, and I will make you wish you'd never been born. _Do you understand?"_

"I understand you're completely pussy-whipped," Parvis said.

"There are no words in this or any other language for what I'm going to do to you, or how much it's going to hurt," Rythian told him, and shoved him away. In the moment it took Parvis to catch his balance, Rythian swept into the kitchen, leaving his anger at the door. Parvis fancied he could feel it hanging in the air, and walked through it like a cloud of hot vapor.

"I've found some apples!" Zoey said, as Parvis entered. "Can I have them? Well, I mean, I've already eaten part of one, but I was _very_ hungry, but you can have it back if you want."

"No, it's—it's fine, Zoey, have anything you want," Rythian said. He had one arm wrapped around his waist and a hand on his cheek.

"Oh. Okay! They're really quite good apples, though, very juicy."

"Are—are they? Good, well. Good. There's—we have an orchard, actually. Kind of, it's not really an orchard, just some apple trees that happened to be nearby, but I _have_ been taking care of it—"

"He's been having _me_ take care of it," Parvis interrupted. "He mostly just does the big fancy magic stuff and makes _me_ do all the hard work."

"Oh, so you're his apprentice, then?" said Zoey. She seemed to have inhaled the first apple and was already working on a second. "Has he been giving you secondhand armor? That's how you know, really. Although if you're a dinosaur you get thirdhand armor, which I guess makes sense because it wasn't really made to fit dinosaurs, but then wouldn't it make more sense to make special firsthand dinosaur armor?"

"Are you _still_ complaining about that?" Rythian demanded. "It was _one time!"_

"I'm not complaining," said Zoey. "I'm only saying that you're not a real Rythian-apprentice until you get secondhand armor."

"You're—I'm telling you, it was _one time,_ that doesn't make a pattern, a—a dot is not the same as a line!"

"He hasn't given me any armor at all," Parvis said. He put the kettle on, on principle.

"You haven't _needed_ it," Rythian pointed out, then appealed to Zoey. "He hasn't needed it!"

"Oh, I don't know," Parvis said evilly. "There have been a couple of nasty explosions."

"That was not my fault," Rythian declared, holding up a finger, "and I won't take responsibility for it."

Parvis bristled. "What d'you _mean,_ it wasn't your fault?"

"Was it the exploding armor again?" Zoey inquired, starting in on her third apple. "Only I thought all that stuff didn't work anymore. Unless you've found a way to make it work again?"

"It—no, no, it wasn't that, just—" He sighed, running a hand back through his hair. "Look, _sometimes,_ a lightning spell goes off when it's not supposed to, and things blow up, and it's not anybody's fault. That's all there is to it."

Floored, Parvis could only stare. He hadn't pegged Rythian for a liar, and certainly not a _good_ one.

"Oh, sure, everybody has that problem," Zoey said, nodding. "I've seen Sjin do it a zillion times."

 _"Sjin?"_ Rythian said. "Hah! Don't make me laugh."

"But you just did," she pointed out.

"It—that was a derisive . . . exclamation, sort of thing, I wasn't _laughing,_ even if Sjin is a laughable excuse for a mage. Which he is. Completely ridiculous and . . . overstuffed. Full of himself."

"I don't know _anyone_ like that," Parvis drawled. Familiar patterns were the easiest to fall back on. The kettle whistled. "Zoey, what d'you want to drink?"

"Hm? Hot chocolate, please. Yeah, anyway, apparently Sjin and Lalna have decided to form some kind of magic cops and you're Undesirable Number One."

Parvis watched a cloud skid over Rythian's entire being.

"If they want to see _undesirable,"_ he growled, "I'll be happy to demonstrate."

"No, no, I think it's fine," Zoey said. Awkwardly, she patted Rythian's arm. "They don't really do much of anything but goof off anyway. I'm sure they'd be no match for you, especially with all the thaumy stuff. Is it that same stuff with the wands and everything you were trying to teach me in the desert?"

"That'd be it," said Parvis.

"Still just as boring?" Zoey asked him.

"Even worse," said Parvis.

"I'm sorry, remind me again who came to _me_ asking to be _my_ apprentice?" Rythian demanded, folding his arms.

"Yeah, but I didn't want to apprentice in stupid _thaumy_ stuff, I wanted—"

Parvis broke out in goosebumps. He didn't so much feel as though someone had walked over his grave; rather he felt he'd just picked up a shovel and started digging. Rythian's shadow was climbing the wall.

"Witchy things," he finished lamely.

"Oh, I know _loads_ of people who do witchy things," Zoey said brightly, apparently oblivious to the unspoken threat in the air. "Nano, Lomadia . . . er, I'm sure there were other people, I mean it was a lot of people, not just those two, only I can't think of anybody else at the moment."

"I'm sure it's fine, Zoey," Rythian said.

"Right! Well, anyway, if you wanted to learn witchy stuff, you could've gone to them, instead of being stuck here with Mr. Grumpy."

Rythian choked. _"Excuse_ me?" he cried.

"Well, you _are._ Grumped off to live all by yourself in the middle of nowhere, in a silly little house with no interior design _at all,_ and nothing to eat but apples—"

"And potatoes," Parvis said, helpfully.

"Ooh, I want one of them next. Anyway, nothing to eat but apples and potatoes, and I'm sure it must be so boring your brain's dripping out your ears."

"Oh God, is it ever," said Parvis.

"I _like_ boring," Rythian stated. "Boring is _fine._ Boring is much better than the _alternative,_ where people get _hurt_ and occasionally lose their _arms."_

Zoey rubbed at the seam between flesh and metal on her right arm.

"Yeah, well, it turned out all right, didn't it," she said.

"No! No, it didn't, you could have died!"

"It was _aaaages_ ago, Rythian, you don't have to keep bringing it up."

"Yes! I do! I don't know why no one else does!"

"This is why nobody likes you, you know. Because you don't ever let anything go."

Parvis saw Rythian crack, right down the middle, and then saw him just as quickly press the halves back together.

"Well, okay, fair enough, I just thought it was worth mentioning, as a—an explanation for why I _like_ my boring house and my boring life. Alone."

"I'm a nuisance," Parvis bragged. "He keeps trying to get rid of me, but I won't go."

"Like a cockroach," Rythian said brightly.

"Aww, that's adorable," said Zoey. Rythian went positively _crimson._

"I—no, that's not—that is _not_ what's going on here, we just live—he just lives here."

"And learns magic," said Parvis.

"And . . . learns magic, I guess, but the _point_ is, I don't like excitement and I'm fine without it, thank you very much."

"But excitement is so _exciting!_ You should've been there when we saved the world from the glowshroom invasion, they came from space and we had to _go_ to space to talk to the mothershroom and then negotiate a peace treaty between brown and red mushrooms and the glowshrooms and it was exciting and wonderful and everything turned out fine and nobody got hurt, so _there."_ She stuck out her tongue at Rythian.

"Who's _we?"_ Parvis asked. He crossed to Zoey and handed her a mug of hot chocolate. "Here."

"Thanks. Mm, _we_ is me and Fiona. My girlfriend."

Again, Rythian cracked along a fault-line and then snapped back together.

"And you went to . . . space?" he asked.

"Yeah! It was super-cool."

"With _science,_ I suppose."

"Loads of science. Fiona's really good at science. Not as good as me, but that's okay, she doesn't have to be. She's good at loads of things—everything really. We only knew about the magic cops because they got onto her about growing ender crops."

"Growing _what?"_ Rythian said, straightening up.

"Ender crops!" Zoey said. "They're like these little plants that grow the pearl thingies. They're really useful, but we had to get a license."

"That's— _disgusting,"_ he said. He sounded like he was going to be sick.

"No, it's magic! I thought you _liked_ magic."

"I don't _mind_ the magic, it's just that—it's—the thing is—the pearl is a . . . look, it's just _weird_ to grow them. It's like—like—"

"Are they enderman balls?" Parvis asked, delighted.

Rythian made the most distressed noise Parvis had ever heard come out of a living creature.

"They're— _no,_ they're not— _enderman balls,_ what's _wrong_ with you?"

"Yeah? Then what _are_ they, that it's so gross to be growing them on plants?"

"Look, it's—not important." He glanced at Zoey. "I'm . . . sure it's fine."

"No, now I'm curious," said Zoey, gazing up at Rythian. "What _are_ they, actually? I've never really known, except that you can throw them and go _zoop!"_

"That—is their primary function, yes. It's—they're a sort of a . . . _gland._ That allows the endermen to teleport."

"Oh, well that's not that gross, why were you acting like it was gross?" Parvis asked.

Rythian glared at him.

"And if I started growing farms of _human_ organs," he said, "you'd think it was clean and normal?"

"Could you do that?" Parvis asked.

"But those are _meaty,"_ Zoey said at the same time, her nose wrinkling. "It's different with the pearls. I mean, they're sort of squishy when they're little, but they're not _meaty."_

"It's—fine, look, let's just talk about something else."

"But _could_ you grow human—"

 _"Parvis,"_ Rythian snapped. "I could have sworn you had things to do. _Somewhere else."_

Parvis pouted. "But Zoey's here!"

"I'd noticed. If you wanted a vacation, maybe you should have told me she was coming."

"You're really _mean_ to him," Zoey said, stating this as more of an observation than a problem.

"You have no idea," Parvis grumbled.

"See you at dinner," Rythian prompted. His gaze was prickling at Parvis's forehead.

"Yeah, fine," said Parvis, and slouched out.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The excited gabble of Zoey's voice greeted Parvis as he came back in from his afternoon chores (most of which he'd done as close to the windows as possible, but he hadn't seen anything interesting). Parvis took his shoes off at the door, trying his hardest to be invisible, because the scene he'd walked in on was exceptional and he wanted to preserve it for as long as possible.

Zoey was pacing the floor, gesticulating wildly as she described some sort of escapade, apparently in space. Rythian was sitting in his armchair, legs curled underneath him, chin on his hand, enraptured. Parvis could almost _see_ the little cartoon hearts evaporating off of him.

Zoey noticed him and broke off mid-story.

"So then we had to go to Mars and—oh, hi Parvis!"

Rythian twitched like he'd received a sizable electric shock, and the lovestruck expression vanished in a snap.

"Didn't hear you come in," he mentioned, getting out of the chair. He winced and shook out his foot.

"How long've you been sitting there?" Parvis asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rythian waved a hand. "Ehh, some time." He craned his neck to look out the window. His eyebrows shot up. "Is it _that_ late? Already?"

Zoey arrived at his elbow. "Ah, oops. I guess I was talking for a while, sorry."

"Don't worry about it," said Rythian. "You can stay for dinner, if you want." There was just a hint of a question on the end of the offer.

"Ooh, yes please! I'll probably have to spend the night, too, 'cause it's dark and horrible and home's a long way off—oh, but you don't have a spare bed—"

"You can use Parvis's," Rythian said.

"Aw, how sweet," said Parvis. "We can share yours."

 _"You_ can—" Rythian began, then stopped himself. He started over, less sharply. "You can help yourself to the winter blankets and make a nest somewhere."

"Oh, no, I don't want to steal anybody's bed, I'd feel awful about it," Zoey said. "Besides, a nest sounds nice!"

"No it—it _does?_ How—in what world—"

Parvis patted him on the shoulder. "This is what happens when you live all by yourself, Rythie. You forget that not everybody is a selfish prick."

"That's a consequence of living with _you,"_ Rythian growled.

"I, um," said Zoey. She was wringing her hands, glancing between the two of them. "I mean, I don't want to be any trouble. It's fine, really, I can head home tonight—"

"No!" Rythian blurted. Parvis saw his hand twitch, as though it wanted to clamp itself over his mouth. "It's just . . . no, it's fine, you don't have to. If you don't want to. I—we—it's not a problem. Really. You—you can stay in my room, if you want."

"Rythian, please, she's got a girlfriend," Parvis intoned.

Rythian rounded on him with fire on his breath.

"How _dare_ you," he snarled, grabbing a fistful of Parvis's shirt. The fabric started smoking. "How fucking _dare_ you—"

"Please stop," Zoey said. Her voice was small, frightened.

Rythian's demeanor flipped like a switch. He took a quick step back, hands raised in surrender, his face the very picture of concern. He had eyes for Zoey alone.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It's fine, everything's fine." He hesitated, then took a knee in front of her. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry, Zoey."

"Oh, for fuck's _sake,_ drop the act!" Parvis snapped, glaring down at him. "Just be the bastard you are and quit _pretending."_

"Leave him alone," Zoey said.

"He's _playing_ you! He's clearly, obviously _playing_ you, how can you not see that?"

Rythian had not looked away from Zoey's face. She turned her attention back to him, and after a moment of deliberation, extended a hand.

"It's all right," she said.

He smiled, took her hand, and got to his feet. "I really am sorry."

"I know." She looked at her feet. "But I think I should probably get going. I've caused enough trouble as it is."

"I can just kick Parvis out," Rythian offered. He had not let go of her hand.

"But he's your apprentice."

"I haven't given him any secondhand armor, so he's not _really_ my apprentice, now is he?"

Zoey cracked a smile.

"Stay," Rythian pleaded. "Just for dinner."

"Well. . . ." said Zoey, casting her gaze to one side. "Maybe just for dinner."

"Fucking _unbelievable,"_ Parvis muttered, throwing up his hands.

"You can leave any time," Rythian mentioned, not taking his eyes off Zoey.

"Like hell. You're not getting rid of me _that_ easy."

"I'll keep trying," said Rythian.

* * *

 

Parvis spent all of dinner glaring sullenly and pulling faces when Rythian wasn't looking. The other two were so wrapped up in each other that they didn't seem to notice.

Parvis, however, noticed a lot of things.

He noticed how Rythian's fingers weren't working right, the fleeting winces of pain whenever he tried to grip a fork or knife or glass; he noticed how Zoey noticed, too, and he noticed how she ignored it.

He noticed the blood Rythian kept absentmindedly wiping off his hands onto his trousers.

In the end, no matter how much Rythian pleaded and cajoled, Zoey was adamant that she couldn't stay the night. Parvis had given up trying to influence any decisions, but he was quietly glad that this particular one had been made.

"I could go back with you," Rythian offered, walking Zoey to the door. "It's dark, and . . . well. Full of terrors?"

Zoey shook her head. "No, I'm sure I'll be fine. I've got a laser! And a jetpack, and a hanglider. I'm sure I'll be fine."

Reluctantly, Rythian opened the door for her. She stepped over the threshold, then turned back. Rythian took her hands.

"I'm . . . glad Parvis called you," he said, his voice scarcely a murmur.

"Oh, me _too!"_ Zoey exclaimed, and grinned. "I mean, between the war and going to space and moving in with Fiona, I'd completely forgot about you!"

Rythian cracked clean in half, and this time the edges didn't snap back together again. Parvis couldn't see his face from where he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, but he could see the way all the air had gone out of him, the way his frame had sagged like his bones had all rotted at once.

"Well," he said. "I'll . . . let you go, then. Wouldn't want to keep you from anything important."

"It was _really_ nice seeing you," said Zoey, hopefully.

Rythian let go of her hands.

"You, too," he said. His voice was scarcely audible.

"Um. Well, I'll—I'll see you later!"

"Goodbye, Zoey."

She looked, for a moment, like she was going to say something—then she turned, walked a few paces from the house, and ascended into the sky on a jet of flame. White-and-red wings opened behind her, and she sailed off into the night.

Rythian closed the door.

"I'm sorry," Parvis said, for lack of anything better.

"Would you," Rythian said, "get the bandages out of my room?"

"She didn't mean—"

"I haven't changed them all day," he continued, as though Parvis hadn't spoken, "and they're leaking."

Defeated, Parvis went and got the roll of cotton bandages from Rythian's room. When he got back, Rythian was sitting on the floor with his back against the armchair, peeling the bloodsoaked cloth from his arms.

"Look," Parvis said, as Rythian fumbled with the roll of bandages. "Really overall it went fine, I mean, right?"

"I was thinking," Rythian said, clumsily wrapping his left arm in fresh cloth, "tomorrow you can start on your blood orb. It's about that time."

"Cool, great, but seriously, I can tell you're upset, and—"

Rythian's wrapping reached his wrist and he tied the bandage off one-handed. He started on the right arm.

"The difficult part is getting enough blood in the altar to make the transmutation work," he said. Parvis had heard zombies with more life in their voices. "But we have the pigs, so it shouldn't be an issue."

"Are you even listening to me? Is any of this getting through?"

"I'll teach you the proper way to slaughter them, of course. It's not as simple as you might think."

"Not a single word. You can't even hear me, can you."

"Of course I can hear you," said Rythian. He frowned down at his fingers as they failed to tie off the second bandage, then brought his wrist up to his mouth and pulled the knot tight with his teeth.

The cloth tore, ripped clean through by serrated edges.

Rythian stared at it for the space of a deep breath, and then fell apart.

He crumpled, sobbing so hard that no sound passed his lips. He gasped in a breath and buried his face in his knees, fisting a hand in his hair and digging fingernails into his calf.

Parvis gawped at him, at a complete loss for what to do. Rythian continued to weep uncontrollably, and eventually Parvis sat down next to him and put a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Rythian shook his head, struggling to breathe.

"Not scared," Parvis preempted him. "Just . . . sorry."

Minutes passed, and Rythian settled, slowly going still and quiet.

He held out a hand to Parvis, not raising his head.

"I know you have it," he said softly.

Parvis's fingers strayed to the glass-bladed dagger in his pocket.

"Rythian," he said.

"Parvis," he answered.

Parvis bit his lip, then slowly drew the knife, pinching the blade between his thumb and forefinger. It was warm against his skin. Rythian's extended hand was steady as a rock.

"Are you _sure?"_ Parvis asked.

Rythian did not answer, did not move.

Carefully, Parvis placed the hilt of the dagger in Rythian's hand. Slowly, achingly, Rythian's fingers curled around it.

He untangled the other hand from his hair and lifted his head. He placed a finger on the tip of the dagger. He pressed, and pressed, and pressed, until his skin gave and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

There was a slice of time where neither of them moved—it could have been five seconds, it could have been five minutes.

Rythian handed the dagger back to Parvis and got to his feet.

"I'm going to bed," he said. "Good night, Parvis."

"I—are you all right?" Parvis stammered, standing as well.

Rythian put the bleeding finger in his mouth and shook his head.

He left the room without a further word.

* * *

 

Parvis awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon. He shuffled out of his room, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He followed the smell to the kitchen, and stopped on the threshold, wondering if he was still asleep.

Rythian was singing to himself, horribly off-key, cooking what looked like eggs and alternating sips of coffee and healing potion. He was dressed in white and purple in place of his habitual black, and his movements were bright and lively.

Parvis rubbed his eyes, pinched himself, and rubbed his eyes again.

"Rythian?" he said.

Rythian looked up and grinned. It was like sunshine breaking through spent rainclouds.

"Good morning! I didn't expect you to be up so early. You can have the bacon that's already done, I'll make myself some more."

"Uh," said Parvis. "Are you . . . all right?"

 _"Fine,_ Parvis, I'm fine. Sit down, have some breakfast. Do you want coffee? I made plenty."

Rythian came over to him, put a hand on his arm, and steered him to his seat at the table. Parvis, completely unbalanced by all this, allowed himself to be steered. He watched in mute fascination as Rythian loaded up a plate with bacon and eggs and brought it to him, along with a cup of coffee.

"Where'd you get eggs from?" Parvis asked, eyeing the food.

"You'd be _astounded_ how easy it is to find chickens if you just go looking," Rythian said, returning to the skillet and laying down another three strips of bacon.

"O- _kay,_ then _when_ did you get eggs?"

"Oh, last night," Rythian said. He took a long pull off the healing potion and chased it with a sip of coffee. "I didn't feel like sleeping. Oh, and the altar's full on blood now, by the way." He held up a strip of raw bacon and grinned over his shoulder at Parvis. "Waste not, right?"

"Okay, look, I'll be honest? This is creepy. This is really fucking _creepy_ and I don't _like_ it." He narrowed his eyes. "You've poisoned this, haven't you."

Rythian laughed. He had, Parvis noted, a very attractive laugh.

"No, Parvis, it isn't poisoned. You don't have to take my word for it, of course, I promise I won't feel insulted."

"That's exactly what you'd say if you _had_ poisoned it," Parvis said, without much conviction.

"I'm inclined to disagree with that, but I won't push the point. If you're not going to eat it, you can give it to me. Saves me the trouble of cooking any more."

Gingerly, Parvis picked up a piece of bacon and sniffed it. Then, with just as much care, he bit off a corner.

"Doesn't _taste_ poisoned," he decided.

"Oh? Good, I've heard poisons are usually unpleasant-tasting."

"Heard from who?" Parvis asked, eyes flicking between Rythian and the plate of food.

"Oh, you know," said Rythian, waving a hand. "People. And personal experience."

"It really oughtn't surprise me that someone's tried poisoning you."

Again, he laughed, and it was disarming and, Parvis had to admit to himself, really _cute._

"It wouldn't, would it. No, I was mainly talking about alcohol, which is more than technically a poison and is one of the most disgusting things a person can drink."

Parvis stared. He sat back, folded his arms, and demanded, "All right, who're you and what've you done with Rythian?"

Rythian shook his head, taking up his plate and coming to sit at the table.

"I'm delighted to tell you, Parvis, and I'm sure you'll be glad to hear, that this is what _normal_ looks like. You might as well ask who the _other_ one was, and what he'd done with _me."_ He picked up a strip of bacon and pointed it at Parvis. "And the answer would be 'very nearly drowned me,' in case you felt like asking."

"This is the blood magic, isn't it," Parvis concluded. "That's what's done this to you."

Rythian met his eyes and smiled.

"And I'm very pleased about it, too."

* * *

 

"Oh, look at _that,_ it's lovely, Parvis!" Rythian cooed, turning the clay sphere over in his hands.

"I, er, couldn't remember the runes. I know there's six, I just don't know what they are."

Rythian waved a hand and made dismissive noises. "The runes are the easy part. This is _craftsmanship."_ He looked up at Parvis. "I'm impressed."

Parvis frowned. "Are you really, or are you just saying that to make me like you?"

Raising his eyebrows, Rythian handed the orb back to Parvis.

"You really aren't going to let this go, are you," he said. "Besides, if I _was_ lying to you, asking me questions wouldn't really help, now would it?"

"Yeah, but—but you've just got to keep in mind that I don't trust you," Parvis said.

Rythian shrugged. "That's fair. Would you like to inscribe your runes now, or are we talking this out first?"

"I—but you— _stop being so reasonable about this!"_ he cried. "It's freaking me out!"

Rythian hid a smile behind his hand. "Sorry. Should I be yelling more?"

"Threats would be appreciated!" Parvis said.

"Oh, I _see._ What should I threaten you with?"

"I—you're _laughing_ at me, aren't you."

"Me? Never."

"Yes you are! You're doing this on purpose, I know you are. Just to—to _mess_ with me!"

"I'm sorry I've given you that impression, Parvis. What can I do to make this easier on you?"

"You've—you're—" Parvis gave up, sagging. "Let's just do the runes, all right?"

"All right," Rythian said amiably. "Your clay's all dried out, so you'll need something with a point to it. Go find a pen and paper, I'll get you something sharp for the actual inscribing."

"Why do I need pen and paper?"

"To practice. The runes are fiddly, you wouldn't want to get them wrong. The whole thing could blow up in your face, and _that_ would be unpleasant. A little practice goes a long way with sanguimancy."

"This is _weird_ and I don't _like_ it," Parvis grumbled, and went to find pen and paper.

* * *

 

Only thirty minutes of copying out runes got Parvis to the point where Rythian confirmed he had the shapes down perfectly. He inscribed the orb with a little penknife, and then the two of them went down to the blood altar in the deep basement.

The room smelled coppery, and all the hair on the back of Parvis's neck stood on end the moment he crossed the threshold. There was a chain with a hook on the end screwed into the ceiling above the altar. Reddish strips of flesh still dangled from the hook. The altar was full to brimming with blood, and gurgled as the two of them walked in.

"Uh," Parvis said, glancing around, "where's the pig?"

"In the freezer," Rythian said, gesturing to a door in the wall that hadn't been there before. "No sense in wasting it."

"Jesus _Christ,_ what all did you _do_ last night?" Parvis cried.

Rythian smiled at him. "I told you: I didn't feel like sleeping. Besides, all that old thaumaturgy stuff makes excavating large amounts of rock ridiculously easy, so it didn't take very long. It can be done with sanguimancy, too, but I didn't have _that_ much time. It requires a higher-tier altar, and I want you to upgrade this one yourself. Important teaching tools, all that."

"The more time I spend with you," Parvis said, "the more convinced I get that you're out of your bloody mind."

Rythian laughed.

"The bloody mind is what I'm _in_ right now," he responded. "I think we can both agree that we like it better."

"No! I don't! It's creeping me out!"

Rythian folded his arms and cocked a hip out to the side.

"Would it help if I threatened to do painful things to you?" he inquired pleasantly.

"Not if you used _that_ voice, Jesus Christ."

"Fair enough," he said. "I'm sure you'll get used to it. You got used to being abused remarkably quickly, I'd think getting used to being treated properly will be even easier."

"I . . . well, at least you acknowledge you were doing it," he grumbled.

"Yes," said Rythian. "And I'm sorry. I wasn't myself—I say that as a reason, not an excuse. I've treated you abysmally and I fully intend to make it up to you."

"You—you _do?"_

"Absolutely. So if I come off as a bit eager to please, rest assured: it's because I am."

Half a hundred vengeful demands swarmed through Parvis's head, but all he said was: "I don't believe you."

"Fair enough," Rythian said again. "I won't push." He rubbed his hands together. "Now. About that blood orb."

"Right," said Parvis, still eyeing Rythian. "Is it going to do . . . um, _things_ to me?"

"You mean is it going to give you a high? Yes."

Parvis shivered, then steeled himself. "Don't dunk me in cold water again," he ordered.

Rythian spread his hands and smiled. "I won't," he said. "Just keep your focus on the orb and you'll be fine."

Muttering to himself, Parvis crossed to the altar and delicately placed the clay orb on top of the pool of blood. This close, he fancied he could hear whispering.

The sphere floated on top of the blood, spinning slowly. Parvis felt something building inside of him, a warmth in his stomach that spread out through his body and limbs. He kept his attention on the sphere, much as he wanted to subside into the pink clouds rising around him.

Blood was climbing the sides of the sphere, sinking into the pores in the clay. The runes glowed red where the blood touched them. Parvis's knees went watery and he had to catch himself on the edge of the altar. It hummed under his hands. He was having trouble breathing—but in a good way.

 _Everything_ was in a good way.

Keeping his mind on the magic was like trying to hang on to a greased pig, but he managed it, even with the pleasure seeping into his bones and flooding his veins. It was, in fact, relatively tame, compared to what Rythian had put him through.

The blood closed over the top of the sphere, and there was a flash of light, and Parvis gasped and slid bonelessly to the floor. His every nerve was singing, his head full of air. He lay panting and trembling, exhausted. There was a heaviness in his limbs that was, he thought, reminiscent of the feeling of having just had really _incredible_ sex.

Rythian knelt at his side and touched his shoulder. Parvis shuddered, closing his eyes.

"You did very well," Rythian told him. "It took me four tries before I got it right."

"Had training," Parvis mumbled.

"I'm not sure I'd call that _training,_ but I'm glad it helped, in some way."

"Silver linings," Parvis said, and chuckled.

"Of course. Would you like some water? Sanguimancy always makes me thirsty."

Parvis nodded. Rythian helped him to sit up.

"You're not gonna dunk me in it, are you?" Parvis asked.

Rythian smiled. "I said I wouldn't, didn't I?" he said, and touched Parvis's nose with a fingertip. "Don't go anywhere."

The blood altar was warm against his back. Parvis sighed, leaned his head back, and finally allowed himself to relax.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note updated tags.

Rythian grinned at him expectantly.

"Uh," Parvis said, looking over the things on the table. "What're . . . these?"

"A gift!" said Rythian. "For you."

"Sure, but, what  _ are _ they?"

"Armor," Rythian said, deflating. "They took all night, you could at least look impressed."

"They're—" Parvis began, and stopped.  _ Worrying, _ part of him wanted to say.  _ Really cool, _ another part thought.

"Impressive," he decided. "But—all  _ night? _ Seriously, when was the last time you slept?"

"Don't worry about that," Rythian told him. "Come here, try them on. I was mostly working from memory, so they might fit a little weird."

Parvis approached the table. Gingerly, he picked up one of the metal gloves that lay on it, painted in black and red. It was half as heavy as he'd expected, and he turned it over in his hands, eyes widening at every perfect joint and seam. Closer, he could see that it was inscribed with hundreds of tiny runes, none larger than his pinky fingernail.

"Oh, wow," he breathed.

"Try them on," Rythian said. "I can make adjustments if I need to."

Parvis placed the glove over the back of his hand and fastened the multitude of clasps around his fingers and wrist. His fingertips fitted inside little claw-ended thimbles, and the plates of thin metal overlapped on his knuckles, so that even when he curled his fingers, no skin was exposed.

"This is incredible," he said.

"Does it fit?"

"Er, well, it's actually a little narrow—"

"Oh, that's easy. Here, give it back, I'll fix it."

Reluctantly, Parvis unclasped all the clasps and peeled the glove off. He handed it to Rythian, who had picked up a tiny hammer from elsewhere on the table.

"Go ahead and try the other one, just in case," Rythian said, tapping at the inside of the glove. "Hands are never perfectly symmetrical."

Parvis tried on the other.

"Fits like a—glove," he said.

Rythian laughed. "Good! There, that should do it."

Parvis accepted the other glove back from him and attempted to put it on. His claw-tipped fingers fumbled at the clasps, ineffectual.

"Here, let me," said Rythian, holding out his hands.

Parvis looked at Rythian's hands, and then at Rythian, and back. Carefully, he placed his hand in Rythian's. With swift assurance, Rythian fastened all of the clasps, his fingertips brushing against Parvis's skin. The expression of focus on Rythian's face lit a low fire in Parvis's chest. He looked away.

"There you go," said Rythian, cupping Parvis's hand in his and patting his palm.

Parvis extracted his hand from Rythian's grasp and looked down at the armor, turning his hands this way and that to catch the light.

"These are so . . .  _ cool," _ he said. "But . . . what're they for?"

"Oh, well," said Rythian, waving a hand. "When sanguimancy blows up in your face, it's usually your hands that take the worst of it. Besides, I thought you could use some armor, and I was feeling intricate."

Parvis raised an eyebrow. "I think you might've put the metal on the wrong side."

"No no no. You wouldn't be able to use your hands if the thaumium was covering your palms. Not flexible enough. That's what the runes are for! It's a sort of a mirroring thing—very complex, you're probably not interested—but the main point is, don't worry about it."

Parvis closed and opened his hands, watching the gloves move.

"Okay," he said, "but why the claws?"

He shrugged. "They look cool?"

"You don't think they might be a little impractical?"

Rythian made a face. "Who cares? We'll be god-kings anyway, we won't use our own hands for most things."

Parvis looked down at his hands, armored in black and red and the glint of runes.

"Thank you," he said softly. "They're beautiful."

A grin burst across Rythian's face, illuminating him. "Let's go try them out!"

"I—wait, hang on, on  _ what?" _

"I did tell you that I'd teach you to slaughter pigs, didn't I?"

Parvis recoiled. "That's not going to blow up, is it?"

Laughing, Rythian skipped from the room, leaving Parvis no choice but to follow.

* * *

 

Parvis shifted his grip on the length of steel and adjusted his stance for the hundredth time. A bead of sweat tickled its way down his face. He wiped it off on his shoulder.

"As hard as you can," Rythian said. He was perched on the fence of the pig pen, kicking his feet. One hand was outstretched towards a huge, pink pig, which stood staring dully at him.

"What if I kill it?" Parvis asked.

"You're not going to kill it. Their skulls are harder than you think."

"But what  _ if _ I kill it?"

"Then it  _ definitely _ won't struggle. But you're not going to kill it."

Parvis adjusted himself again and took a deep breath. The pig continued to stare at Rythian. Parvis steeled himself, then shook his head and backed down.

"What're you  _ doing _ to it?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Rythian.

_ "That's _ a goddamn lie if I ever heard one. It's just staring at you."

"Maybe it's very stupid," said Rythian. He twisted his hand to one side. The pig's head mirrored the motion.

"You're doing something to its brain," Parvis accused.

"Maybe it finds me very interesting."

"You're mind-controlling it."

Rythian laughed. His hand remained so still, it might as well have been nailed to the air.

"If I could mind-control pigs, you wouldn't need to hit this one with a metal stick."

"Then why is it just  _ staring _ at you?"

"It's grown fat and complacent," Rythian told him, "and this hand is usually holding something it likes to eat. As hard as you can, Parvis."

"Fucking  _ creep," _ Parvis muttered under his breath. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he raised the steel bar above his head and brought it down with all his strength on the pig's head.

The pig went sprawling, legs flailing, and  _ screamed. _ In panic, Parvis hit it again, and again, until it went still. Panting, trembling, he stared down at the twitching body, the caved-in skull and the blood seeping from a crushed eye.

He could hear the smile in Rythian's voice.

"See? I  _ said _ you wouldn't kill it."

"It's dead," Parvis said. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"It's still breathing," Rythian pointed out.

Parvis turned aside and vomited. He was still clutching the steel bar.

There was a squelch as Rythian hopped down off the fence, and then another few squelches as he walked over to the pig.

"Help me carry this, Parvis?"

"You're  _ sick," _ Parvis spat, glaring at him. Rythian's expression was placid, almost sweet.

"It's only a pig, Parvis," he said.

"You could at least have the fucking decency to look—to look  _ upset!" _

"Why?" Rythian inquired, putting his head to one side. "I see no reason to be upset."

_ "Look _ at it!" he cried, gesturing. In the process, he accidentally looked at the pig, and nearly vomited again.

"I've seen it," said Rythian. "It's not like you've never killed a pig before. I'm sure you have."

"With a  _ sword," _ Parvis retorted. "Quickly. Not . . . like  _ this, _ not messy and horrible!"

"Well, the sooner you help me carry it downstairs, the quicker this will be."

Parvis shuddered, but managed to pry his hands off of the steel bar. He let it drop into the muck and sidled down to the opposite end of the pig from Rythian—fortunately, the less mangled one.

"By the legs, Parvis," Rythian instructed gently.

Parvis reached down and grabbed a leg in each hand. They were thick with fat and hard with muscle, and covered in mud.

"Ready?  _ Up!" _

Together, they lifted the pig. Parvis's arms began lodging complaints about weight almost immediately.

"Christ, how did you manage one of these by yourself?" he gasped, as Rythian steered them towards the house.

"It was a much smaller pig," Rythian said, "and I had a lot of time."

"It's too heavy, I can't do this."

"Okay, we can do the shoulder method. Just hoist it up, ready?  _ Hup!" _

Parvis yanked up on the pig's legs and ducked underneath its hindquarters. Rythian, on his end, echoed the motion. The pig's mutilated head lolled over his shoulder, out of Parvis's vision.

"Isn't it going to get . . .  _ stuff _ all over you?" Parvis asked.

"Oh, probably. Biological fluids are something you have to get used to if you're going to get anywhere in sanguimancy. Any easier to carry back there?"

Parvis grunted, adjusting the hindquarters on his shoulder.

"Kind of. It still sucks."

Rythian laughed. "It does. We'll hurry."

They took the pig down to the basement, where the blood altar gurgled hungrily at their approach. Parvis eyed the hook dangling from the ceiling.

"I s'pose we're hanging it up, then?" he said.

"We are," Rythian confirmed. "On your end. Don't worry, I'll help you lift it."

"Wait, how—"

Rythian dropped the pig, forcing Parvis to do the same. It twitched when it hit the ground. There was blood spilled down the front of Rythian's white shirt.

"We just have to get the hook underneath the pelvis," Rythian said. "Granted, we could have bound its feet and hung it up by that, but frankly I can't be bothered." He grabbed one of the pig's hind legs in both hands and squatted down.

Parvis stared down at him.

"I'm really . . . not comfortable with this," he said faintly.

"It'll be fine, Parvis, I promise. You wanted to do sanguimancy, didn't you? Well, this is part of it. You'll get used to it, don't worry."

"But—I mean, it'll  _ hurt—" _

"Only for a little while," Rythian assured him. "And then it'll be dead because you'll have cut its throat. It's all right, Parvis. We got these pigs specifically for this purpose. They were born to die."

Parvis swallowed down his doubts and crouched down across from Rythian, gripping the pig's other hind leg.

"It can't . . .  _ feel _ anything, not with its head like that," Parvis mumbled, half to himself. "I mean, right?"

"Of course it can't," Rythian said. "Ready?  _ Up!" _

They hoisted the pig off the ground and waddled it over to the altar. Rythian climbed up onto the humming stone, and Parvis was forced to scramble after. His shoulders were burning with the weight of the pig, but with a final grunt of effort he managed to hoist it up over the hook and drop it again in concert with Rythian.

The pig screamed, flailing, and knocked Parvis off the altar. Rythian had hopped out of range of the squirming body, although flecks of blood spattered his shirt and face. Calmly, giving the altar a wide berth, he walked to Parvis's side and helped him to his feet.

Parvis found the glass dagger pressed into his hand. He stared at Rythian in horror, uncomprehending.

"Under the jaw," Rythian prompted, "all the way across. Stand behind it, because it'll spray. Hang on to the ears, if you can. It'll be quick. Painless."

"I-I-I can't," Parvis stammered. His fingers had gone numb. The pig was still screaming, thrashing, blood flowing down its pale stomach.

"Yes, you can," Rythian told him. "Here. I'll help."

He wrapped one hand around each of Parvis's and walked him to the altar. He guided one hand to the pig's ears—Parvis grabbed on because it was either that or have his fingers broken by a thrashing pig. Rythian brought his other hand over to the pig's throat. He was standing close behind Parvis, warm against his back, breath ghosting against Parvis's cheek.

"Don't worry," Rythian murmured. "I'll catch you."

The shaking of his hand was damped by Rythian's grasp. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away, and pressed the knife to the pig's throat. Rythian made him press harder, made a shallow and uncertain cut into one that was deep and sure.

Blood sprayed. The pig's screams went suddenly silent, although it continued thrashing. The altar slurped and gurgled. The knife fell from numb fingers, the pig's ears slipped from his grasp.

Parvis's eyes rolled back in his head as the wash of power flooded through him. His knees went out and he collapsed into Rythian's arms, unable to breathe, unable to move or think or do anything but tumble along on the waves of ecstasy crashing out of the altar. They kept coming, one after another, steady as a heartbeat.

Slowly, the tide began to ebb, tapering off in both intensity and frequency, until there was only a trickle of pleasure swirling in Parvis's stomach; and then that, too, fizzled and died.

Awareness returned slowly, a piece at a time. He was sitting on the floor, his back against something warm. The stench of blood was thick in the air, but it was sweet on his tongue. His body was weak and watery. He had his eyes closed. Rythian was holding him, arms around his waist—Parvis was nestled between his legs, and the warm thing against his back must have been Rythian's chest.

"Never make me do that again," Parvis mumbled through numb lips.

"I won't," said Rythian. "But I'll help when you need me to."

Parvis shook his head. He managed to get his hands onto Rythian's arms.

"Not doing it again," he said, and shivered. Once was enough. Once was so much more than enough. If he had to weather that storm of pleasure again it would  _ kill _ him.

"Of course," said Rythian. He paused, then asked, "Are you all right?"

Parvis shook his head. "Nearly  _ died," _ he said.

Rythian chuckled and gave Parvis a squeeze.

"Congratulations on surviving," he said.

"You're laughing at me."

"Yes."

"That's mean. You're mean."

"I thought that was what you wanted."

"Shut up," Parvis grumbled. He sighed and let his head fall back over Rythian's shoulder.

"Someone with less self-control," Rythian said, a sly note in his voice, "would be kissing your neck right now."

Parvis made a little noise that he dearly hoped Rythian wouldn't be able to interpret.

"Someone with a worse memory might let you," he responded.

Rythian sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Okay, fair enough, I deserved that."

But of course, now that Rythian had  _ said _ it. . . .

"You're a terrible person," Parvis mumbled, hardly aware that he was thinking aloud. "And it's all going to end it tears."

"Things usually do," Rythian confirmed.

"You'd do something awful to me afterwards," Parvis went on. "Because you hate me. You hate even  _ touching  _ me."

Rythian shook his head, making little  _ tsk, tsk _ noises.

"Ah, the lies we tell to spare our broken hearts," he sighed.

Frowning, Parvis asked, "What's  _ that _ supposed to mean?"

"It means," Rythian murmured, bowing his head to Parvis's neck, "that nothing awful is going to happen to you."

Parvis's heart was thundering in his chest, and the fizzled ends of magical ecstasy were reigniting in his veins, sparking all over the skin of his throat.

What, he thought, was the worst that could happen? What could Rythian possibly do to him, here and now, that would make it all  _ not worth it? _ There was no boiling water, no convenient cutlery, no secret promise of pain hidden somewhere on Rythian's person—

But then he thought of those saw-edged black teeth, so very,  _ very _ close to the tender flesh of his throat, and he went cold.

"No," he said.

Rythian stopped, his lips a hair's breadth from Parvis's skin. His disappointed sigh raised goosebumps across Parvis's neck.

"Fair enough," he said, and pulled away.

Parvis found himself shivering, his mouth parched.

"I'd like something to drink," he said, when he'd gathered himself enough to speak normally.

"Would you like me to bring you something?" Rythian asked.

Unsteadily, Parvis extracted himself from Rythian's arms and got to his feet. Behind him, Rythian rose as well.

"Could probably use some help with the stairs," Parvis admitted, mumbling. Rythian extended a hand. Parvis took it without looking at him.

"Well," Rythian said, as they ascended, "how do you like the gloves?"

Parvis looked down at his hand, resting in Rythian's palm. He blinked.

"I'd forgot I was wearing them," he said.

"Ah, perfect! Not too much trouble from the claws, then?"

"None," said Parvis. His tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, and it was difficult to keep his eyes open. "I'm . . . really tired."

"That will happen sometimes, early on," Rythian said.

"But  _ you _ never sleep anymore," Parvis pointed out.

"I said  _ sometimes," _ he said. "It'll get easier." He paused. "All of it."

Parvis clenched his jaw. "Look, I—I'm not sure I want to do this anymore."

"Oh?" said Rythian, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I just—it's a bit much," he said.

"I understand. It's not for everyone."

The careless unconcern in Rythian's voice rankled him.

"What, you're not going to tell me I'll change my mind?" he demanded.

Rythian shrugged. "If you do, that's your business. If you don't, it's also your business." He treated Parvis to a fond smile. "I can be your master in anything you want."

Parvis tripped on the stairs, and then had to extract himself from Rythian, who had very helpfully caught him before he cracked his knees on the stone. His skin was burning all over.

"I—er, right—well, that's—I'm just going to . . . not talk anymore," he babbled.

Rythian was still giving him that smile. He could see it in his peripheral vision.

"Fair enough," said Rythian. "Come on, only a hundred and four more stairs to go. And all of them in perfect silence! I've never been so lucky."

"Now  _ that's _ more like it," Parvis muttered.

He really hoped Rythian wouldn't see him fighting down a smile.

* * *

 

Rythian had brought him upstairs, set him in front of the fire and given him several blankets; brought him a tall glass of cold water and a mug of hot coffee; made him some kind of thick stew and run him a hot bath. After all that, Parvis found himself scarcely able to keep his eyes open, his limbs filled with lead.

"Do you need anything else?" Rythian asked, tagging along as Parvis made his way to his room.

"Sleep," he said, and yawned.

"That's all? Well, that makes  _ my _ life easier."

Parvis snorted, pulling open his door. He paused on the threshold, then turned to face Rythian.

"We haven't got to do this," he said.

Rythian's head tipped to the side. "Do what?" he asked.

"Blood magic," Parvis said, gesturing vaguely. "Any of it. You could just . . . teach me thaumaturgy like you wanted. We could just quit."

"You could," Rythian allowed, folding his arms. "I'd help you with the withdrawal, of course."

"No, I mean . . . I mean  _ both _ of us," Parvis said. The back of his scalp was prickling.

Rythian gave him the kind of smile usually reserved for comically misbehaving dogs.

"Oh, Parvis," he sighed, and shook his head.

"I mean it," he said.

"I know you do," Rythian said. "And I'll consider it. In the mean time, you should sleep. You're sure there's nothing else I can get you?" His eyes twinkled. "A kiss goodnight, perhaps?"

_ Fuck it, _ thought Parvis.

"Yeah, all right," he said.

Rythian's eyebrows shot up. "Really? I thought I wasn't trustworthy enough for kissing."

"Consider it a test," Parvis said.

"Let me know if I pass."

"I will."

Rythian put a hand on Parvis's cheek, and leaned in, and very gently kissed him.

"Good night, Parvis," he murmured.

Parvis's head was spinning, and tired as he was, he simply stood there reeling when Rythian walked away.

"A-plus," Parvis said faintly, and tottered off to bed.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Rythian woke him just after dawn with a barrage of excited knocking. Parvis, to his own surprise, wasn't groggy in the least, and in fact found himself bright and aware.

"Good morning!" Rythian chirped, when Parvis opened the door. "Get your gloves, there's things to do!"

"Well—hang on, let me get _dressed_ first—"

"Oh, yes, that, but there's so much to _do._ I waited as long as I could but honestly the sun's up and you should be, too, and I got bored of waiting—oh, but we're going to have to kill another pig because I made myself a blood orb while I was waiting for you to wake up, I hope that's all right—"

 _"Rythian,"_ Parvis said, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "Let me get dressed, fuck's sake."

Rythian blinked at him.

"Right!" he said. He leaned in and pecked Parvis on the lips, then darted out and closed the door behind him. Parvis stood there sputtering for a few seconds before the gears caught in his head.

 _"You can't—_ do that," he said, beginning at a yell and ending in a mumble, mostly because his lips were still tingling and because, in fact, he found he really didn't mind if Rythian did that, provided there continued to be no painful repercussions.

Scatterbrained, he managed to dress himself, and even got both the gloves on without assistance, although he did have to use his teeth to fasten the clasps on the second one. He snagged his blood orb—replete with blood from having been left on the altar most of the night, Rythian must have brought it up while he slept—and slipped it into his pocket. Thus equipped, he made a quick search of the house proper, concluded that Rythian wasn't there, and headed down to the altar room.

Where Rythian also wasn't.

Puzzled, Parvis called out, "Rythian?"

The room swallowed the sound, as though it was an empty theater and Parvis stood upon an empty stage.

The blood altar gurgled. Parvis gulped.

A thought resurfaced, one that had gone past without comment but was rising again laden with concern: Rythian had been in his room while he slept, had snuck in and placed the full blood orb on the nightstand without ever waking him. Parvis's stomach turned with a directionless unease.

"'S not like that anymore," he muttered to himself. He couldn't take his eyes off the blood altar, which was nearly empty, by the look of it. "He's better now."

There was a series of heavy _thumps,_ and something hit Parvis in the back of the knees with considerable force. He toppled, catching himself on his hands, and felt the impact all the way to his spine. A mass of pink flesh landed beside him, and Parvis scrambled to his feet.

Rythian skipped down the stairs, breathless and jovial.

"I am _so sorry,"_ he said, grinning at Parvis. "I swear I didn't mean to hit you with it. I thought you were still upstairs!"

"Have you just rolled a dead pig down the stairs?" Parvis asked, putting a hand on his hip and regarding Rythian critically.

"Well it wasn't dead when it _started,"_ Rythian said. He crouched down next to the motionless pig and laid a hand over its throat. He stood again. "But yes, I think I've just rolled a dead pig some of the way down the stairs."

"You could have asked for help," Parvis pointed out.

"You said you didn't want to do it again."

"I—did I?" He frowned, thinking. Certainly, the lead-up had been . . . _unpleasant,_ but in light of everything that had come after, was it really so bad?

 _Yes,_ part of him whispered. _What are you even_ _ talking  _ _about, it was horrible!_

"I seem to recall some reluctance," Rythian said. "But I'm glad you're past it! You can do this one if you want, I'm sorry I used up all our stored essence on a blood orb, but I really did need one. We'll make you a divination sigil today and maybe start work on some runes to upgrade the altar to the next tier, and I can tell you about rituals—you'll like rituals, they're fun—"

Parvis had to resist the temptation to grab Rythian and shake him again. He wasn't quite prepared for another unsolicited kiss.

 _"Rythian,"_ he interrupted.

"Yes?" said Rythian, attentive as a terrier.

"How about you do the messy bit this time, and I'll do the divvy-whatever, once you've told me what it is."

He brightened further, if such a thing was possible.

"What an excellent idea! Just help me hang this thing up, it's heavy."

Together, the two of them hoisted the pig up and dropped it on the hook. Blood flowed lethargically from the wound, nothing like the cascade that had come from Parvis's pig; yet still, Parvis found himself swallowing down revulsion.

"All yours," he said, stepping back. A thought occurred to him that tamped down any misgivings.

"And don't worry," he added mischievously. "I'll catch you."

Rythian wrinkled his nose.

"I doubt that will be necessary," he said, drawing a glass dagger from his belt, "but I appreciate the thought."

Parvis folded his arms. "You're talking shit," he accused, "and I'm going to laugh myself sick when you're on the floor all whacked-out and stuff."

Raising an eyebrow, Rythian asked, "But weren't you going to catch me?"

"I'll catch you and then _put_ you on the floor," said Parvis.

"Oh, well, fair enough."

Rythian turned to the pig and, without a moment's hesitation, slit its throat wide open.

Since it was already dead, the blood didn't come in violent spurts, but in a fast and steady waterfall that pattered on the altar. Parvis saw Rythian lock his knees and catch himself on the altar, saw his sharp intake of breath; he watched him bow his head and tremble, and then watched as he straightened up, pushed the hair out of his face, and shrugged the whole thing off.

He turned to Parvis and smiled, extending a hand. Parvis wondered, idly, just when his eyes had turned that deep and vibrant red. He also wondered—and just as idly—when he'd started walking towards Rythian, and why it felt like moving downhill.

"Catch me?" Rythian asked, his voice soft and low. Parvis placed his hand in Rythian's. The contact was electric.

"'S that necessary?" Parvis wondered, lost in Rythian's eyes.

Rythian's smile widened. "You're the expert," he said.

"Don't really look like you need much catching," Parvis said. They really were a very _pretty_ sort of red. . . .

"I'm sure," Rythian murmured, drawing Parvis closer to him, "I could find something to pitch."

Suddenly, surprising even himself, Parvis burst out laughing. He had to take his hand out of Rythian's to prop himself up on his knees, wheezing with mirth.

"What?" said Rythian, pouting. "Why are you _laughing?"_

"That sounded—so _dirty,"_ Parvis gasped, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, I just— _wow."_

Rythian folded his arms. "Fine, well. Go and get a slate from upstairs, you'll need it for the divination sigil."

"Aw, now you're just sulking," Parvis said.

"Sulking? Me? Never. I'm just eager for you to move forward in this, that's all." He made a shooing motion at Parvis. "Go on! Slate, upstairs, should be in one of the chests by the essentia—I keep meaning to move it down here, maybe tonight. Get one that's about the size of your face, no thicker than your thumb."

"All right, all right," he said, smiling to himself. "Keep your trousers on."

"If you insist," said Rythian, and winked.

Parvis flushed and sputtered out some retort that might have been clever before it got to his mouth. He hurried out of the room, acutely aware of Rythian's gaze on his back.

The jars of multicolored essentia had grown dusty and stagnant, and the infusion altar was a dark and brooding mass at Parvis's back as he rooted through the chests. Once again, thoughts that had passed without comment on their first iteration were resurfacing, demanding further attention.

Why was it, he wondered, picking through old boots and broken armor, that Rythian could so easily cope with the rush of power that unerringly dropped Parvis to his knees? Why was Rythian so eager for Parvis to make progress in the magic, when it was so clear that he wasn't able to cope with the effects?

What the _hell_ had happened in the slice of time between when Rythian slit the pig's throat and when Parvis started laughing?

He found a slate at last, of the appropriate size, and only noticed that his hands were shaking when he pulled it out of the chest and watched it shiver in his grasp. Frowning, his stomach uneasy, Parvis made his way back downstairs.

Rythian smiled at him when he walked in.

"Ah! Good, you found it. This one's very simple, it's just one rune to be carved—"

"Why doesn't it do you like it does me?" Parvis asked.

Rythian's head tipped to one side. "Say again?"

"The magic," he clarified, gesturing to the altar. "How come you can just—take it?"

"Oh, _that,"_ said Rythian, rolling his eyes. "You get used to it, I promise. It'll get easier, really it will, soon you'll be able to handle it just as well as I do. Now, since we're working with stone, the engraving will be a little more difficult, but we should be able to manage. Come here, put that slate in the altar, it has to be infused twice—"

Parvis crossed to his side and, at his bidding, placed the slate atop the altar. It stood straight up, sunk two inches deep in blood. Parvis's fingers started tingling.

"This is the easy part," Rythian told him. "Barely takes any focus at all."

Blood was climbing the sides of the slate, and warmth was suffusing Parvis's body. Rythian's voice dimmed down to a background murmur. The blood closed over the top of the slate, there was a flash of light, and Parvis's knees buckled. He caught himself against the altar, breathless.

Rythian put a hand on his shoulder, which almost made his knees go again.

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Rythian asked.

"Hahah," Parvis wheezed. "You said _hard."_

He grinned. "So I did. Pick up your slate, Parvis, there's still a ways to go before we're done."

Parvis picked up the slate. It was warm in his hands, and carried an indefinable quality of _aliveness._ Parvis handled it more like a pet than a slab of rock.

Rythian's hand slid onto his biceps, and he guided Parvis away from the altar, over to the wall. The two of them sat down, and Rythian presented him with a chisel and miniature hammer from his belt.

"I'll sketch it for you," he said, once again drawing the glass dagger. "All you have to do is trace the lines."

Muzzily, Parvis watched him scratch thin white lines into the black stone.

"That's a different one," he said at last. "The dagger, I mean. 'S not mine, 'cause mine's broken."

Rythian smiled an indulgent little smile and didn't look up.

"It is," he confirmed. "Yours is—oh, somewhere, I'm sure. It'll turn up."

Parvis nodded. Rythian gave him back the slate and tucked the dagger back into his belt.

"So I just carve what you did?" Parvis asked, looking at the smooth curves of the rune.

"It doesn't need to be very deep," Rythian said. "Just do your best."

"All right," he said gamely, and set to work with the chisel and hammer. He'd never used any similar tools before, so it was slow and clumsy going. Rythian helped, which actually made things _more_ difficult, because Parvis kept getting distracted by the warm touch of fingers on his wrists.

When at last the work was finished, the rune was jagged and crude, and Parvis was half out of his mind with lust. It was just that Rythian was sitting so _close_ to him, and kept _touching_ him with those lovely, strong hands, and his voice was like warm honey and his words were like mead.

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he said, smiling. "Come on, let's put it in. Almost there, Parvis!"

He helped Parvis to his feet and took him to the altar. Parvis shed chips of stone the whole way.

"This isn't, um," he said, looking between the altar and the crudely chiseled slate, "going to take a whole lot of focus, is it?"

"Some," Rythian said. "Nothing you can't handle, of course."

"Of course," Parvis mumbled, then shook himself. He repeated, more strongly, "Of course I can handle it. After everything _you_ put me through, it'll be a piece of cake."

Rythian's smile did not waver. "With a cherry on top," he confirmed.

"Right," said Parvis. He wiped one hand on his trousers, then the other, passing the slate between them. He took a deep breath, set his jaw, and placed the slate in the altar.

The effect was immediate—the blood swarmed up the sides of the stone, pleasure swept out through Parvis's body like a fire. It all happened so quickly and with such intensity that Parvis was lost underneath it, was cut loose from himself and carried away on a tide of magical ecstasy.

There was a white flash, and a sharp _bang,_ and suddenly he was sitting on the floor, cold and smarting and _empty._

It was worse than anything he'd yet experienced—that sudden and total loss of feeling—and it left him screaming through gritted teeth, thrashing ineffectually, _aching_ for resolution, for release, for _anything_ other than this maddening _nothing._

And then Rythian was there, and pressing something warm into his hand, and he murmured, "Take whatever you need."

Parvis grabbed him by the hair and kissed him desperately. It didn't occur to him that, perhaps, that had not been what Rythian had meant, until his back hit the floor hard enough to bruise both his shoulders.

It occurred to him that it really didn't matter what Rythian had meant when the mage came down on top of him, returning the kiss with equal fervor and tearing at Parvis's clothes with both hands. Parvis whimpered and tugged on Rythian's shirt until his hands found bare skin, hot and firm. Rythian broke off the kiss and bit Parvis's neck, the knife-points of his teeth piercing the skin.

Parvis cried out, arching up against him. Rythian yanked Parvis's trousers down and grabbed his cock, and Parvis gasped and dug his fingernails into Rythian's back.

"Please," he begged, nearly sobbing. "Please, God, please, I want you, I want you—"

Rythian growled, and bit down harder, and pumped Parvis's cock with a rough assurance that reduced Parvis to gasping incoherence. In less than a minute Parvis was cumming into his hand, his mind whited out with pleasure, his whole body ringing like a bell. Rythian kissed him and left the taste of blood on his tongue.

A weight settled on his chest, and there were hands in his hair, and something warm and wet bumped against his lips. Parvis opened his mouth and raised his head, and Rythian's hiss of pleasure as Parvis mouthed the end of his cock sent a shiver down his spine.

"Good boy, Parvis," Rythian murmured, as Parvis took him further in, ran his tongue along the length of him. _"Good_ boy."

Eyes closed, Parvis put his hands on Rythian's thighs and lifted his head further, trying to reach the base—but Rythian's hands tightened in his hair, pulled him back, and so Parvis made do with suckling at the tip, making liberal use of his tongue, letting his teeth touch the flesh _just_ so, encouraged and directed by the honey-golden words that spilled through Rythian's lips at every turn, until his mouth filled with salt and Rythian gasped and stiffened. Parvis swallowed, never even thinking to pull away until Rythian's hands untangled from his hair and the weight left his chest, and then he was lifted up and cradled against the warmth of Rythian's body.

Rythian kissed the bite on Parvis's neck, which was still oozing blood.

"Good boy, Parvis," he said.

"'S that what I get 'f I get it wrong?" Parvis mumbled into Rythian's shoulder.

Another kiss. Warmth flooded out under Parvis's skin.

"If that's when you want it."

"And if I want it other times?"

Rythian chuckled. "Then it's yours then, too."

Parvis's brain was short-circuited in so many places that the whispered words of his subconscious somehow managed to make it out of his mouth.

"'S all goin' too fast," he muttered. "Doesn't make any sense."

Rythian kissed him just under the ear, and the voice was lost under the warm seas of contentment.

"It's not supposed to make sense, Parvis," Rythian assured him. "It's just supposed to feel good."

Parvis hummed an agreement. Exhaustion was settling over him like lead snow, and his mind had gone soft and fuzzy.

"I'm going to put you to bed," Rythian said. "You must not have slept much, poor thing."

"Slept plenty," he mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open.

"Poor thing," Rythian said again.

The last thing Parvis remembered was being lifted from the ground and cradled against Rythian's chest, his heartbeat murmuring in his ear.

* * *

 

Parvis couldn't be sure how long he'd slept, but he certainly didn't feel like sleeping any more. It was dark outside, and the waxing moon was low on the horizon. He got out of bed and padded out into the main part of the house, barefoot. He scavenged the kitchen for a midnight breakfast and then went on wandering, for lack of anything better to do.

He checked Rythian's room first, on a hunch that he wouldn't be sleeping—and sure enough, the room was empty, the bed neatly made and showing no signs of having been slept in. The whole room was meticulously tidy. The floor gleamed in the moonlight that spilled in through the window.

There was a nightstand by the bed, and on it was a lineup of trifles arranged with military precision. There was a chunk of basalt, melted to an obsidian shine on one side; a little red mushroom in a tiny clay pot; an arrowhead of flint. There was a glass bottle full of water, neatly labeled _Handheld Pool._ There was a thick stone mug, clumsily engraved with two capital C's. The items were set on a perfect straight line, and the spaces between them were uniform. The nightstand underneath was spotless, even around the potted mushroom.

Parvis poked around for another few minutes, but the only other interesting thing he found was a shard of glass embedded in the door, still smelling faintly of raspberries.

Having nothing better to do, he made the long trek down to the altar room, still munching a piece of jam-slathered toast. As he descended, the stone stairs grew warm beneath his feet, and the air became thick and heavy.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. Half of a piece of jam-slathered toast went _splat_ on the floor. Rythian looked up.

"Oh, hello, Parvis," he said. "You're up sooner than I thought you'd be. Give me just a couple of minutes, I'm almost done here."

Parvis stared, his mouth hanging open.

 _I should feel sick,_ he thought. _This is sickening._

Rythian bore down with the knife in his hand. Blood rolled down the side of the altar. Bone cracked.

"Oh, God," Parvis whispered, while his stomach shriveled.

"What?" said Rythian. "It doesn't _hurt."_

 _Cr-ack,_ went the knife. Rythian didn't so much as flinch.

The tip of his pinky, just above the knuckle, rolled off the altar and bounced onto the floor. Blood dribbled from the stumps of his fingers.

"The other hand _might_ be a little harder," he decided, looking down at his mutilated hand dispassionately. "But I can at least put these on."

He set the knife down and picked up a glistening shard of obsidian from a pile on the corner of the altar. One end had been shaped into a smooth point, and the other end was threaded like a screw. Still expressionless, Rythian screwed the claw into the bleeding stump of his thumb. The obsidian grated audibly against the bone.

"It's a good thing you're awake, actually," Rythian remarked, screwing a second black claw into the mangled end of his pointer finger. "I could use your help with the other hand."

"Oh, God," Parvis said again, unable to take his eyes off the horrible spectacle before him. Rythian was already on to the next finger. Blood oozed from the wound like syrup as he twisted the claw in.

 _"Par-_ vis," he warned, shooting him a glance. "You can't just stand there going _oh, God_ all night. It's going to get very tedious. I won't need _much_ help, anyway, I can probably get the ends off myself—"

"Why?" Parvis croaked. There was a trembly feeling in his gut, as though he should have been shaking but couldn't manage it.

Rythian shrugged. "Well, it's not exactly delicate work."

He tried again. "Why are you . . . _doing_ this?"

Rythian's brow furrowed, and he put his head on one side. He screwed in the end of his ring finger, and then his pinky.

"Why not?" he guessed at last. "Come _here,_ Parvis."

He shook his head and took a slow step back. It was like trying to move against a swift current of waist-high water.

"This is wrong," he said. His lips were numb. "This is—fucked _up."_

Rythian looked up at him, and the current rose to chest height. He held out his bloodied, claw-ended hand, and the water flooded up to Parvis's neck, forcing him to take a step forward, and then another.

"It's fine, Parvis," Rythian said softly. "Don't worry about it."

The churning horror drained away, washed out by a tingling warmth. He took Rythian's hand.

"Good boy, Parvis," Rythian said, and kissed him lightly. Parvis sighed, letting the tension drain out of his shoulders and back, letting the warm waters of contentment wash over him. Rythian turned him around and pulled him into his lap, and Parvis nestled back against him, leaning their heads together.

"Now," Rythian went on brightly. "Let's see about making this manicure match, hm?"

Parvis was only too happy to oblige.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1\. I've taken some liberties with how blood magic works to make it less Minecrafty and more real-world feasible.  
> 2\. I'm taking a short break from this story to work on other stuff. Should be back soon, no worries.

Parvis found himself sitting on his bed, staring down at the blood on his hands with a head full of air. His thoughts filtered back in, regaining volume and clarity, settling out of the background roar like sediment from a river.

He started shaking. The blood was cold on his hands, his fingers were sore, the bite on his neck still stung and ached, half a hundred kisses still tingled over his skin. Echoes of Rythian's voice rang in his ears, their sweetness lost in the retelling.

_Good boy, Parvis. You're such a good apprentice, so helpful, so cooperative. Good boy, Parvis. Good boy._

He somehow got to his feet, and just barely managed to stagger to the toilet before he started throwing up, smearing bloody handprints on the floor and on his trousers. The shaking continued to worsen, and when he had nothing left to throw up, he put his back against the wall and curled up as small as he could go.

 _What is_ _ wrong _ _with you?_ the nagging voice in the back of his head demanded. _What were you_ _ thinking?  _

Parvis shook his head, burying his face in his knees. His bloodied hands were sticking to his elbows. His whole body ached, and he could feel helpless sobs building in his chest. He didn't bother trying to fight them down.

The crack of breaking bones was still loud in his ears, the grinding scrape of obsidian on bone; the smell of blood was overpowering, filling his sinuses; his hands recalled the resistance and give of Rythian's flesh under the knife.

Parvis toppled forward and threw up again, spitting bile into the toilet while tears dripped off his face. He was shaking so hard that he couldn't breathe right, and the sobs burst through him like a flood through a cracked dam. He crumpled to the bathroom floor, curling up like a child, tangling sticky, aching fingers in his hair, gritting his teeth so hard it made his whole skull ache.

_What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you?_

He could taste blood, could feel it congealing on his skin, could smell it on every breath. It was too much, it was all too fucking _much,_ he couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take feeling like this, couldn't take the sound of that _voice_ still snarling at him from the prison at the back of his head—

Parvis heaved himself to his feet, and staggered blindly back into his room, and found the broken glass dagger sitting neatly on his nightstand, and plunged it up to the hilt into his calf without a moment's hesitation.

The tears dried up. The boiling horror simmered down. The shaking subsided, and his churning stomach settled.

Parvis sat on the floor, panting, blood dribbling down his leg and into his shoe. Wincing, he pulled the knife out. Blood gushed from the wound, and Parvis cursed, clapping a hand over it.

 _"Rythian!"_ he called, trying to stem the flow. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Moments later, the door opened. Rythian took in the scene in a glance and clicked his teeth.

"Oh, Parvis," he sighed. "Let me get you a potion." He shook his head, turning away. "Next time, don't pull the knife out."

"Sorry," Parvis mumbled.

"Don't worry about it," Rythian said, waving a hand. "No sense crying over spilled blood."

Parvis managed to crack a smile.

 _What the fuck is_ _ wrong _ _with you?_ the voice screamed.

Parvis ignored it.

* * *

 

"So today," Rythian mentioned over their afternoon meal, "I thought we should start on the runes to upgrade the altar."

Parvis frowned. "But I still haven't got my divvy-whatever-thingy."

Rythian waved a hand. The glossy black tips of his fingers glinted in the light. "That's not all that important," he said. "We can do it later. The sooner we upgrade the altar, the more we can do. Besides, it's a lot of simple rune-carving, it'll help with the divination sigil."

"Thought that wasn't the problem," Parvis said through a mouthful of ham.

"It can't have helped," Rythian said, shrugging. "If it's focus you're concerned about, you can always practice on your own."

"Yeah, but—" Parvis began, and stopped himself.

 _But I think too much when I'm on my own,_ he thought.

Rythian looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "But?" he prompted.

Parvis dropped his gaze. "'S no fun," he mumbled.

"Ah, well. Not everything can be, unfortunately. It pays off, in the end."

"I . . . don't like being alone," he said. He poked at his ham. It was looking less appetizing every minute.

 _"Aww,"_ Rythian cooed. "That's adorable. Don't worry about it, Parvis. You don't have to be alone if you don't want to. I don't mind having you along while I'm working—you could learn a lot by watching, I'm sure."

Parvis chewed his lip. "All right," he said at last. "The rune stuff, though, that isn't going to blow up in my face, is it?"

"If it does, there's always a fair amount of recompense," Rythian said. Parvis could _hear_ the wink in the lilt of his voice, and blushed accordingly.

"Fair enough," he mumbled.

"I'll trace out the first few for you, after that it should be simple enough to do them on your own. We'll need . . . oh, a hundred and eighty-four of them."

Parvis spat a mouthful of coffee all over the table.

 _"How_ many?" he cried, half-choked.

"Well, _eventually_ a hundred and eighty-four," Rythian allowed. "Twenty-eight should do for now. Well. Eight, I suppose. For now. But you might as well do twenty-eight now so there's less to do later. It'll take a little—how do I put this—landscaping, in the altar room, but I don't mind doing that myself. So eight, for now."

"Christ, what the hell sort of upgrades are you _planning?"_

Rythian shrugged. "I'm just looking ahead. I've done this before, Parvis, it's just a matter of getting back to where I was. The runes are tedious, I'd prefer to get them over with as soon as possible—we'll start with runes of sacrifice, they're simple and highly effective and we'll always need them, they're a good basis for the network—"

"But a _hundred and eighty-four?"_

"Not yet! Besides, we'll need at least two other kinds of runes, and most of them will be for superior capacity because God knows the damn thing loves to spill over—"

"Oh, and I suppose those are more complicated, are they?"

"Naturally, but don't worry about it, you'll have gotten good at carving by then, it's a steep learning curve but once you have it you have it for good, and you'll have _plenty_ of practice—"

"I'd damn well better have plenty of _help,_ too."

"Stop interrupting me, Parvis."

The voice rolled over him like a crash of thunder, made his heart stutter and his spine tingle. Parvis bowed his head and clasped his hands and fought the urge to pray.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"Don't worry about it," Rythian said, instantly returning to his sunny disposition. "Impulsivity is a hard habit to break, I'm sure you'll get through it. You're already better than you used to be, I don't know if you'd noticed—I know _I_ have, and I'm pleasantly surprised at how quickly it's been going. _Anyway,_ the runes aren't so bad, I only did about eight a day and I was done in less than a month—"

Rythian continued talking, and Parvis let the words patter down around him like warm, sunlit rain.

Quietly, he resolved to himself to never, _ever_ interrupt Rythian again.

* * *

 

Parvis had been working for a little over an hour, and his hands had completely given up on him. His fingers were cramping so ferociously that he couldn't hold the chisel anymore, he was bleeding in at least three places and bruised in several more, and his back ached so badly that he couldn't stand up straight.

He had completed a grand total of four runes.

They were set into the stone floor, laid out on a grid that Rythian had quickly drawn out for him when they'd come down to the altar room just after lunch. He'd given a long explanation of what the runes did and why they had to be set into the floor, not a single word of which had stuck in Parvis's head—Rythian's hand had been on the back of his neck throughout the explanation, and the cold brush of obsidian claws against his skin had scattered his concentration.

Not to mention all the other, more pleasant sensations, which had also scattered his concentration, although in a very different direction.

Even the inscribing itself hadn't been entirely unpleasant. Each rune required an infusion of blood to be completed—in this, Parvis had finally found a practical use for his blood orb, using it as a magical bucket to ferry blood from the gurgling altar to the runes. He had only needed to fill it once (which was a blessing, since recovering from the rush had taken a good five minutes), but it was nearly empty now, having poured its contents into the divots Parvis had carved into the slates (which had also taken a bit of recovering from, although not nearly as much).

Fortunately, the slates he'd been carving and then setting into the floor had already been infused for him, otherwise the possibility of an explosion would have been a good deal higher.

The lines of the runes were red on the floor, and squirmed whenever Parvis wasn't looking directly at them. He'd touched the first one, just after he'd filled it, expecting his fingers to come away bloody—but whatever the orb had put into the divots, it was solid, smooth, warm to the touch.

Wary of having anything blow up in his face, Parvis had decided to go find Rythian before attempting to refill his blood orb—that way, if anything _did_ go wrong, it would go much better afterwards.

Somehow, the thought failed to fill him with enthusiasm, and he made his way up the stairs trying to think of a way to ask for the rest of the day off.

Rythian was waiting for him in the dining room, pacing, chewing his lip. There was a multitude of tools in his belt, some of which he couldn't possibly have a use for, which he kept touching as though to make sure they were still there. If Parvis hadn't known better, he would have said Rythian looked _nervous._

"Oh! You're here," he said, looking up as Parvis entered. "That was—quicker than expected. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Well, mostly. I'm pretty sick of it, if I'm honest."

Rythian nodded absently.

"I . . . made you something," he said, twining his fingers together, looking at Parvis with huge, hopeful eyes. "It's . . . a present. I know you weren't really happy about the whole—you know. . . ." He waved a hand.

"Grueling physical labor?" Parvis guessed.

"Yes, that—so I made you a present. To make up for it. In . . . whatever way I can."

Parvis eyed him critically. "All right," he said.

Rythian gestured to the table, upon which rested a black box, just the right size to fit in Parvis's palm. Parvis came around to Rythian's side of the table and picked up the box, turning it in the light. He could feel Rythian's eyes on his back.

"Open it," Rythian prompted.

Parvis opened the box.

The horror started slow, running like black tar through his veins, spreading out from a dripping knot in his stomach all the way down to his shaking fingers. Rythian slid his arms around Parvis's waist and kissed his neck.

In the box were thirty-two knife-edged, obsidian teeth.

"Do you like them?" Rythian asked, his voice gone low and dark.

"Th-they're . . . lovely," Parvis croaked. His skin was crawling everywhere Rythian touched him. "B-but I—I haven't really got a . . . place to put them. . . ."

Rythian laughed, and kissed Parvis's neck again, and Parvis whimpered.

"Oh, don't worry about _that,"_ Rythian said. "I would be _delighted_ to help you make room."

"Rythian, please," he whispered, trembling all over. Tears were prickling at his eyes. He was going to be sick.

 _"Rythian, please,"_ Rythian mocked, and laughed again. "I told you I don't make idle threats, Parvis. You should be grateful that I made you replacements."

"It was _ages_ ago, I thought you—I thought you weren't still—"

"Angry? Oh, _no,_ Parvis, I was never _angry._ I'm not angry now. I'm just enjoying myself. You wanted me to be happy, didn't you? And I'm getting there, Parvis. I'm getting there."

"I—I'm sorry, Rythian, I'm _sorry,_ please don't do this, I'll do anything you want—"

"Oh, Parvis," he sighed. His lips burned against Parvis's skin. "You'll already do anything I want. I could make you enjoy this if I wanted to. But, in this case, I really want to hear you _scream."_

He whimpered again, squeezing his eyes shut. A pair of tears trailed down his cheeks.

"Why?" he said, choking on his own horror, desperate for anything to delay the inevitable.

 _"Why?"_ Rythian said. There was a smile in his voice. _"Because,_ that's why. Because I _can."_

"Please don't do this," Parvis said again. "I can—I'll—"

Rythian sighed. "You know what, Parvis? I just realized how very _sick_ I am of listening to you talk."

Claws pricked at Parvis's skin, and Rythian pulled him backwards, into the main room and into his lap in the armchair. Something in the back of Parvis's head was screaming at him to run, to fight back, to at least drop the fucking _box,_ but Parvis just let himself be dragged, rendered helpless by the thick horror in his veins.

One of Rythian's hands trailed up his side, over his shoulder and up his neck, and came to rest with a fistful of his hair. His head was pulled back, and back, and back, until he could no longer keep his mouth closed. He whimpered again.

"You're so _easy,_ Parvis," Rythian murmured. The hand that wasn't tangled in Parvis's hair had gone, presumably to one of the multitudinous tools in Rythian's belt. Some of them had been quite sharp. . . .

"Such a perfect little narcissist," he went on. Something hard and cold rested against Parvis's lip. He shrank away, and Rythian's grip tightened. "Such a sweet little piggy, so _trusting,_ so _greedy. . . ."_

The tool slipped into Parvis's mouth, all the way to the back. A metal beak closed around the last tooth on the left and squeezed. Parvis cried out, and his whole body twitched. Rythian kissed his cheek.

"Shh, shh, don't be _frightened,_ Parvis," he said. "It's not like I've never done this before."

 _Please,_ Parvis tried to say. Spit was pooling at the back of his mouth, making the plea into a wordless, formless gurgle.

Rythian turned the pliers first one way, then the other, and Parvis could feel the tooth tearing loose, leaking coppery blood into his mouth—and then Rythian _yanked_ and there was a ripping noise and Parvis screamed. The pain bloomed across his whole face, going right down to the bone, sharp and aching.

There was a little _tik_ noise as Rythian tossed the tooth away. The cold pliers returned, fastening on the next tooth forward. Parvis twitched again, sobbing, his mouth full of the taste of blood.

Rythian kissed him again.

"Only thirty-one more to go," he said.

The pliers rocked back, and forth, and yanked and _tore._

And Parvis screamed.

* * *

 

And then, centuries later, it was over.

The pliers thunked to the floor. The hand untangled from his hair. Blood spilled over his lips and Rythian kissed it away. The world was nothing but pain, sharp and aching and all-consuming, pouring from the holes in his mouth.

So when Rythian kissed him numb, it was salvation.

"Who is your master, Parvis?" he inquired, wiping away blood and pain with his thumb, cradling Parvis's aching jaw in his hand.

"You," Parvis mumbled. Wherever pain had been, numbness came after—his mouth, his jaw, his mind.

Rythian kissed his cheek.

"Who do you _belong_ to, Parvis?" he asked. Parvis could vaguely feel his body kneeling on the floor.

"You," he said.

Rythian ran a hand through Parvis's hair, gentle and sweet. Parvis leaned into the touch, his eyes drifting closed.

"Who _owns_ you, Parvis?" Rythian asked.

"You," Parvis breathed. It was a word that didn't make his jaw ache, that didn't make him remember the pain. He liked it, as he liked everything that was happening now.

Rythian kissed him, and he liked that even more.

"And would you do anything for me, Parvis? Do anything and love it, simply because I asked you to?"

Another easy word, easy answer.

"Yes," he said.

"Good boy, Parvis," Rythian murmured. Parvis's body flushed with warmth, with gratitude and contentment. A thumb brushed his sticky lips and he parted them. Rythian tugged his head forward, and the tip of his cock bumped Parvis's lips, and Parvis wrapped his mouth around it as easy as breathing. Rythian sighed, and Parvis set to work, his movements as slow and lazy as his thoughts. Rythian didn't seem to mind.

"Good boy," he said. "Such a good boy. I don't think I'll hurt you anymore today, Parvis."

Parvis hummed an assent, felt Rythian shiver at the sensation. Rythian petted his hair, trailed claw-ended fingers over his tingling scalp.

"You won't feel a thing. . . ."

* * *

 

Parvis staggered through the darkness, clutching the shovel to his chest. The dull ache was returning to his jaw, and with it a rising horror that threatened to choke out his mind like strangling vines.

He could taste blood. He could taste nothing _but_ blood. He could not keep his tongue off of the cold, flat sides of his new teeth, the tender pink flesh that had grown around them on the strength of the magic.

The river was cold around his ankles, and then on his knees as he dropped into it. The shock drove more of the numbness from him, tore away pink clouds to reveal the brambles underneath. He dug with single-minded desperation, not daring to think about anything but the next shovelful of sand, the next strike and tip and heave. He was shivering. He was drenched in sweat.

Parvis dug out the last inches of sand with his fingers, the water stinging against his skin. The little mailbox had rusted, the wood half-rotted, and tears crept down his cheeks as he hauled the pieces out, hammered them into the soft dirt with his hands and the flat of the shovel.

The letter nearly fell in the river, caught at the last second in a panicked scramble and stuffed into the sand-crusted mail slot. _To Everyone,_ it said, every name Parvis could recall, every acquaintance and enemy and once-heard name he'd somehow retained.

 _To Everyone,_ written in a shaking hand, blotted ink. There were holes in the paper, as ragged as the bleeding edges of his memory, speckles of blood and sweat and tears, clumsy folds and hasty wrinkles.

 

_To Everyone_

_Help me. Help me. Help me._

_Anyone. Someone. It's the blood magic. It's Rythian. For the love of God_

_Help me. Help me. Please._

_Help me_

 

And he clutched at the rusted metal with aching fingers, and he rested his burning forehead against the rotted wood, and his shoulders shook and heaved, and tears dripped from the end of his nose and he swallowed blood.

He didn't know how it worked. He didn't know if it still would, didn't know which names he'd written would ever read it, didn't know if the letter would ever even reach them. He didn't know how it worked—it just _did._

It had, once. Just once before, and he didn't know how.

He prayed—to someone, to _anyone,_ to a god in whom he'd never believed, and still didn't—he prayed, he _begged._

_Help me._

 


	10. Chapter 10

Parvis woke with a head full of fire and a stomach full of dread. He peeled himself out of bed and bathed in cold water. Every movement hurt, and his mouth throbbed with every beat of his heart. He kept his eyes on his feet and took the mirror down off the wall. There were some things he simply couldn't face.

He cleaned the sand out from under his fingernails, dressed in the best clothes he had, combed his hair seven times and made his bed.

He walked out of his room like he was walking to the gallows, with his head held high and his eyes focused on his quickly shrinking future.

He stopped short when he caught sight of the absolute wreck of the main room.

The stuffing from the armchair had been torn out and thrown everywhere. The table was in splinters. There were holes in the walls.

Rythian was sitting in the middle of the floor, his head in his hands, shivering. As Parvis watched, he closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Tell me it was a nightmare," he pleaded, his voice raw. "Tell me none of it really happened. Tell me I didn't. For the love of God, tell me I  _ didn't." _

Parvis managed to pry his aching jaws open just enough to say, "You did."

Rythian's fingers tightened in his hair, and he let out a sound like he'd just been punched in the gut.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he whispered. His eyes were still squeezed shut. "It was never supposed to get this bad."

"It has," Parvis said, and watched the words weigh down on Rythian's shoulders, bowing him further.

"I'm sorry, Parvis," he said. Tears dripped from the end of his nose. His hands were white-knuckled in his hair. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. . . ."

Parvis considered his next words carefully, weighing the possibility that he was being played—again, still—against the possibility that there was a way  _ out. _

"Are you?" he asked.

Rythian's eyes opened, and his gaze darted back and forth as though searching for an answer written on the floorboards. His breath was coming short, and he untangled one hand from his hair to dig his claws into his own calf.

"I don't know," he said, an edge of panic in his voice. "I don't  _ know, _ I don't  _ know, _ it's all—I can't feel right, I can't  _ think _ right, I—I—I shouldn't, I'm not supposed to—"

Blood was beading under his fingertips. He was shaking violently, the words tumbling over his lips like water.

"It's  _ not _ supposed to  _ be _ like this!" he cried, his voice breaking.

Parvis's feet carried him across the room, and he found himself kneeling in front of Rythian, taking gentle hold of his wrists. It was like wrapping his hands around steel bridge cables.

"Stop," he said.

"It was  _ better, _ everything was  _ better—I  _ was  _ better!" _

"You're hurting yourself," he said.

Rythian wrenched a hand out of Parvis's grip and hit himself in the leg, sharply and repeatedly.

_ "I'm not supposed to feel sorry anymore!" _

Catching his wrist again was like trying to grab hold of a beached shark's tail, but Parvis managed it with only a few bruised knuckles.

"Rythian, look at me."

He shook his head. The claws were sunk half an inch into his calf.

"I  _ can't," _ he moaned.

_ "Look _ at me."

Rythian sat in shivering silence, biting his lip so hard that drops of blood rolled down his chin. He finally managed to raise his eyes, and they were bloodshot and brimming with tears. He met Parvis's gaze for less than half a second before looking away again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Parvis, I'm sorry. . . ."

"I don't care," Parvis said. Rythian flinched. A pair of tears slid down his cheeks. He trembled in Parvis's hands.

"Parvis—"

"I don't care," Parvis repeated. "Is it going to happen again?"

_ "No," _ Rythian said. He sounded like he might be sick.

Parvis let go of his wrists, reached over to his belt, and pulled the glass dagger out of it. He held it by the blade and offered it to Rythian.

Rythian made the punched-in-the-gut sound again, shrinking into himself. He accepted the dagger with a hand that was shaking so hard it was a wonder he could hold onto anything.

"I'm sorry, Parvis," he said under his breath. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

The blade bit into Rythian's leg, and the trembling shut off like a switch. Rythian took a deep, slow breath. The claws came out of his leg with a gentle sucking sound.

Rythian got to his feet and ran a hand back through his hair, wiped the blood off his chin. He looked down at himself, expressionless.

"I need a shower," he remarked, and drifted out of the room.

Parvis sat back on his heels, staring at his hands.

_ You could have killed him, _ the voice at the back of his head whispered.

"Shut up," he mumbled back.

_ You could have run, _ it went on.

"Shut  _ up." _

_ You've been domesticated, _ the voice spat.  _ Good fucking boy, Parvis. _

Parvis clenched his jaw, and shut his eyes, and wished Rythian had left the knife.

* * *

 

There was a quiet, one-knuckle knock on Parvis's door. He looked up—he'd been sitting on his bed, staring at his hands, for almost an hour.

"Yeah?" he said.

Rythian pushed the door open and poked his head in.

"It's been a rough couple of days," he said slowly, not looking at Parvis, "and . . . I was thinking it would be nice to just spend the day in bed." He raised his eyes. "Preferably with you, but I can understand if you don't want that."

_ Fuck no, _ Parvis's inner voice said.

"Are you going to do anything horrible to me?" Parvis asked.

Rythian smiled wanly. "No. Definitely not."

Parvis patted the bed beside him. Rythian came in and sat down, touched one knuckle to the back of Parvis's hand. His hair was still wet from the shower, and for once he didn't smell like blood.

They sat in silence for several long minutes. Parvis kept trying to think of something to say, but the gears in his head had gotten too gummed up to allow for quick thinking.

"What happened to you?" he asked eventually.

Rythian made a face. "You'll have to be a little more specific."

Parvis slogged his way through to another thought.

"This morning," he said.

"Oh,  _ that. _ That was just sixteen hours without sanguimancy. I usually don't let it get that bad, but . . . well. Circumstances didn't permit."

"And . . . before that?"

Rythian sighed through his nose and wrapped his arms around himself. Parvis felt the loss of contact all the way to his heart, and listed to one side until his shoulder touched Rythian's, and the cold, hollow space inside him filled back up.

"I don't know," Rythian said quietly. "I don't know what happened to me, or why. But I  _ promise _ you, Parvis, it isn't going to happen again. I swear it."

_ Bullshit, _ the Inner Parvis hissed.

"You sure?" he asked, his one concession to the buzzing fly at the back of his head.

Rythian put an arm around him and kissed the top of his head. Parvis sank into him and shut his eyes. It felt like coming home.

"I'm sure, love."

_ KILL HIM, _ Inner Parvis roared, and promptly drowned under the joyous rush that flooded through the rest of Parvis.

_ "Love?" _ he breathed.

"Yes," Rythian said.

_ "Love," _ said Parvis, and laughed.

* * *

 

Parvis lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, too sick to move.

Rythian had gone, at some point. Time had gotten slippery, and Parvis was only just now regaining conscious thought. The things he was thinking were exceedingly unpleasant.

_ You're a pet, _ Inner Parvis said.  _ You're as bad as the pigs. You just  _ _ let _ _ him. _

He shivered, his hands tightened on the bedsheets.

_ Less than a day ago he was tearing your teeth out, _ Inner Parvis went on,  _ and you just snuggled right up and started begging for scraps. Are you fucking  _ _ pleased _ _ with yourself? You just  _ _ let _ _ him. _

"What was I supposed to do?" Parvis whispered. His eyes were stinging, his vision gone blurry.

_ Fight, _ _ you stupid fuck! Do  _ _ anything _ _ other than just lying there and letting him do what he pleases with you! _

Parvis shook his head, slowly.

"I can't," he said.

_ You're pathetic, _ Inner Parvis spat.

He had nothing to say to that.

* * *

 

Days passed, each running into the next without distinction. Parvis spent most of his time carving runes and doing chores. Whenever he wasn't doing blood magic, and whenever Rythian wasn't around, the vicious inner voice tore at him relentlessly.

He spent very little time alone, when he wasn't doing blood magic.

The mornings were the worst—he would wake sore and confused and shaky, trying to sort through and piece together everything that had happened since the last time he woke up, and inevitably the Inner Parvis would rip him to shreds over every moment of it.

One morning, he woke to an uncommon noise.

_ "Psst." _

His eyes snapped open, and he lay frozen in bed.  _ Psst _ was not a Rythian noise.

He didn't dare to turn his head. He started shaking. He heard the door click closed. Something was making the high-pitched whine of active electronics.

"Parvis?"

He swallowed. He was shaking so hard now that breathing was difficult. The voice was like the shift of a gravel hillside, and it was  _ familiar, _ and it  _ wasn't Rythian's. _

He turned his head, blinking tears from his eyes.

Strife took a step back, and his hands tightened on the black shaft of his atomic disassembler. His eyes, green as emeralds, fixed on Parvis with bright and serious intensity.

"Don't make any sudden moves," he warned.

"You . . .  _ came," _ Parvis choked.

Strife glanced over his shoulder. His hair gleamed gold in the morning light. Red sleeves were rolled back to his elbows, his arms kissed with sun. He'd loosened his tie, undone the first button of his shirt. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine.

"Yeah, here I am," he said testily, "and y'know, Parvis, I'd really like to  _ not _ be here anymore, so if you could get up and get moving, that'd be  _ great." _

His limbs were slow to respond, but he managed to get out of bed. He couldn't stop staring at Strife. He reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. Strife jerked away.

"Don't do that," he said. "Grab whatever you can carry so we can get out of here before Rythian turns up."

The voice at the back of Parvis's head spun up, making gears catch elsewhere in him.

"R-right, right," he mumbled. He put his shoes on while Strife listened at the door, stuffed a few spare clothes and the orb and a coat into a bag.

Strife's hand plunged into the bag and came out with the orb. He held it in front of Parvis's face, scowling.

"No," he said, and set it firmly on the nightstand. "You're not taking that with you."

He stared longingly at the orb for a moment before Inner Parvis pointed out what an idiot he was being, and then he got to his feet.

"Okay," he said.

Strife looked him up and down. "What, that's it? You don't have any—"

The door opened.

Parvis nearly went out the window; his knees bent for the jump, but buckled immediately. Strife whipped around, putting himself between Parvis and the door, and the atomic disassembler swung up.

And then it drifted back down again.

"Hi," said Rythian, smiling. "I  _ thought _ I heard voices. Strife, isn't it? I've heard a lot about you—all good, I promise—sorry I didn't let you in, Parvis didn't say he'd invited anyone over."

Strife was gaping at Rythian, his eyes gone wide.

"What . . . is wrong . . . with your  _ hands?" _ he choked, his voice coming out slurred.

Something vicious flashed across Rythian's face, just for a moment, and then his smile was back, warmer and sweeter than ever. He came in and put a hand on Strife's arm.

_ "Someone's _ been meddling in things they shouldn't," he said conversationally. "Come have breakfast with us, Strife. Since you're visiting anyway."

Parvis  _ saw _ Strife's free will go under, saw its last gasp at the surface as Strife tried to pull away, and he nearly burst into tears because here was  _ proof, _ irrefutable  _ proof _ that it  _ wasn't just him, _ that his terrible complacency, his domestication, was externally sourced.

The relief was short-lived.

Strife raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"Sure, why not? I never turn down free food."

"A man after my own heart," said Rythian, gently pulling Strife to the door. "Parvis, would you start some coffee?"

As he went into the hallway, Parvis found himself following, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to not let Strife out of his sight.

"Ooh,  _ coffee," _ said Strife. "I didn't know there was going to be  _ coffee." _

Rythian smiled, setting Strife down in his chair.

"Parvis does forget to mention these things," he said. "He forgets to mention quite a  _ lot _ of things, in fact. Like whether he's inviting company."

Strife snorted. "He would."

"I've heard he apprenticed with you before finding his way to me," Rythian said, while Parvis started a pot of coffee. He'd perched on the edge of the table and was looking at Strife with entirely too much interest.

"If you can call it that, sure," Strife allowed. "Mostly what he did was  _ annoy _ me. I got lucky that the transportation got botched and he ended up with Martyn."

"That's mean," Parvis heard himself say. "Martyn was never that mean to me."

"Yeah? But  _ Martyn, _ may I point out, Parvis, isn't here, rescuing you from—from. . . ." Strife's brow furrowed, and he wound down like a toy soldier.

_ "Rescuing?" _ Rythian inquired, clearly amused. "And they call  _ me _ the dramatic one."

Strife blinked, coming back online.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, right, well—most people haven't seen the fits Parvis pitches when someone tries to make him do work, hey?"

Rythian smiled and patted Strife on the shoulder. "Surely not. Can I get you something to eat, Strife? There's always plenty of bacon and ham, I think we still have some eggs left—"

The small talk continued, and Rythian made them all three breakfast, and Parvis made three cups of coffee, and Rythian came over and sat on Parvis's end of the table and toyed idly with Parvis's hair, claws drawing thin and tingling lines over his scalp.

"So, Strife," Rythian said, once the food had been duly devoured. "When  _ was _ the last time you played with sanguimancy?"

A spark of surprise went off in Strife's eyes, and was doused almost immediately.

"In . . . college," he said. "Hey, how did you know about that?"

"You must be a very recent graduate," Rythian remarked, "considering the field is less than two years old."

"Is—is it? I—huh. Well, I mean, I  _ say _ college, but—"

"But you  _ mean: _ I found a little book and a little orb and thought it sounded fun," Rythian completed. "Yes, I left them all over the place."

_ Son of a bitch, _ Inner Parvis said.

"You. . . ?" Strife said. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes.

"Me!" Rythian said brightly. "Out of curiosity, how far did you get? Parvis here never did anything with it until he came and found me."

"Not . . .  _ that _ far," Strife mumbled. "Built an altar, y'know. Never really got past the—the whole, poking yourself with the knife . . . thing."

Rythian sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yes, everyone chickens out at slaughter. I'd say it's a shame, but I really can't, because if you'd gotten  _ much _ farther than that, you'd be trying to put my nose through the back of my head with that hideous little science stick of yours."

_ Listen! _ Inner Parvis cried, rattling his bars.  _ Did you hear that? Did you  _ _ hear _ _ that?! _

Strife was nodding. "Uh-huh, yeah. And it's a—it's an atomic disassembler. Not a science-stick."

"Of course it is," Rythian allowed. He slid off the table and stretched. "Well, Strife, this has been a pleasant visit. Unfortunately, Parvis and I have a great deal to do, and not a lot of time for unexpected guests. I hope you'll come and see us again soon, though."

Strife drank the last of his coffee and got to his feet—a little unsteadily, Parvis thought. Rythian crossed to him and put a hand on his arm.

Parvis shot to his feet, grabbing the nearest piece of cutlery, his heart stuttering in fear. Rythian shot a glance at him, and all the fight went out of him, smothered under complacent warmth.

"No, Parvis," Rythian said softly. "Not this time."

"I uh . . ." said Strife, frowning, "don't really like being touched."

Rythian turned his attention back to Strife, and the frown dissolved.

"Thanks for coming, Strife," Rythian said, keeping his hand firmly on Strife's arm and leading him to the door. The disassembler hung loosely in Strife's hand. "I hope I've demonstrated that Parvis doesn't need any rescuing."

"Psh," said Strife, rolling his eyes. "If anybody needs rescuing, it's  _ you, _ from  _ him. _ I don't envy you, Rythian, I'll tell you that."

Rythian grinned and opened the door for Strife.

"I'm sure," he said. "It's been a pleasure, Strife. Take care."

"Thanks. Try not to let him drive you  _ too _ crazy."

"We can always hope for a teleporter malfunction," Rythian said.

Strife laughed, and waved to Parvis, and walked away.

Rythian shut the door. He came back to the table, sat down in Strife's recently vacated seat, and put his feet up on the table. He began cleaning his claws with the hem of his shirt.

"I'm killing the next one," he mentioned. "So I hope you didn't invite anyone you like."

Thinking was getting difficult again, and fear and hope and anger were all sinking back into the depths of him, silenced in the face of Rythian's attention.

"Zoey," Parvis managed.

Rythian froze, and the whole world froze with him. Parvis found himself unable to breathe, unable to even blink.

"Did you mention the blood magic?" Rythian asked, his voice barely audible.

"Yeah," said Parvis, incapable of anything but the truth.

Rythian, and the world, unfroze, and everything was as it had been.

"She won't come," he said lightly.

_ You're going to get them all killed, _ Inner Parvis said.  _ You fucking moron. _

"Why . . . why didn't you kill  _ him?" _ Parvis asked.

Rythian shrugged. "Oh, he'll be back, I expect. No one stays away from sanguimancy very long. Besides, it'll wear off in a few hours and he'll be  _ kicking _ himself for leaving you here with me." He paused, considering his fingers. "I think I'll wrap him up and give him to you as a gift, when I'm done with him. You'd like that, wouldn't you? I could make him love you, if you liked."

Shivering, a cold pit of dread in his stomach, Parvis croaked, "What're you going to do to him?"

Rythian looked up at him and smiled. Warmth flooded up through Parvis, opaque and heavy.

"Be a dear and clean up these dishes, would you?" Rythian asked.

The last of Parvis's thoughts slid into darkness, and he did as he was told.

 


	11. Chapter 11

At some point, they had acquired four more chairs.

"Since you decided to invite guests," Rythian explained over breakfast, unasked, "I thought they should at least have somewhere to sit."

"Before you murder them?" Parvis inquired dully.

He laughed. "Oh,  _ Parvis. _ You're so naïve! It's adorable. Incidentally, we have a lot of carving to do. I cleared out a room for rituals last night, but there are a  _ lot _ of runes involved, not even counting the ones to upgrade the altar—don't worry, I'll do the complicated ones, but I think  _ sometime _ soon we'll need to teach you how to carve superior capacity, because it  _ does _ tend to overflow and I'm sure neither of us would want to waste any hard-earned blood." His head tipped to one side. "You like carving, don't you?"

"If I didn't," Parvis said, prodding an undercooked slice of ham, "would it matter?"

Rythian's smile could have cut diamonds.

"Of course it would, Parvis," he said. "I'd never make you do something you didn't like. We're past that, now.  _ I'm _ past that now."

"And if I told you I  _ don't _ like carving?"

"I'd tell you that that can be fixed," Rythian said. "I can fix it right now, if you want."

Parvis swallowed, trying to get his heart out of his throat.

"N-no, that's . . . fine," he croaked.

"Good! I'm experimenting with letting out the leash a little, so to speak. You're doing very well, by the way. I expected tantrums."

_ Don't you  _ _ dare _ _ fuck this up, _ Inner Parvis hissed.  _ We'll only get one chance. _

"Am I?" he asked, his voice squeaking.

"From where  _ I'm _ sitting," Rythian said. "But if you don't like it, we can go back to the way it was. I know you have trouble with your mind telling you nasty little lies whenever I'm not around to shut it up."

_ No, y'know what? Fuck it, kill him now, _ Inner Parvis said.

"No! No, it's—it's all right, I can handle it," Parvis blurted.

Rythian raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"If you say so," he allowed. "If there ever comes a time when you can't, just say the word."

Parvis swallowed and poked at his ham some more.

"Um, so . . . what're we doing today?"

"I was thinking runes. Just runes, nothing complex. I know you're a little shaken, so I don't want to try anything  _ too _ taxing on your concentration. Unless you want to, in which case, I could come up with something for you to try."

"No, runes . . . runes are fine." He cleared his throat. "When you say . . .  _ we. _ Do you really mean  _ we?" _

"In this case, yes, I do," said Rythian smiling at him. "It is an  _ awful _ lot of runes. I'd hate to leave you down there without help. Besides, there's not much I can do until we've upgraded the altar, so it's to my benefit to help out."

Parvis nodded. "Fair enough," he said.

"It'll be fun, Parvis," Rythian assured him. "Just you and me, master and apprentice and a little blood magic. You'll enjoy yourself."

"Whether I want to or not?" Parvis muttered under his breath.

"Oh, no, Parvis," he said. "Just for today, I'll allow you to be miserable for as long as you want."

"Wow, thanks," said Parvis, rolling his eyes.

"My pleasure," said Rythian.

* * *

 

It had been an hour, and Parvis was losing his mind. His hands ached and shook, frustration tangled in his chest, shortening his breath, building with a slow and steady pressure that made him feel like he was going to explode.

The magic  _ wasn't working. _

Or at the very least, it wasn't working  _ properly. _ There was something like the old rush whenever he activated a rune, a faint tingling and wash of pleasant sensations, but it was thin and pale, and faded before he could build upon it with another infusion.

Rythian seemed unaffected. He whistled tunelessly while he worked, lying on his stomach on the floor and kicking his feet like a child. He'd gotten through four runes in the time they'd been down there, without apparent effort, and was working on his fifth. Parvis had done two, and they were clumsy and ugly compared to Rythian's.

The chisel slipped off the stone for the umpteenth time and impacted Parvis's fingernail. He cursed vehemently and put his finger in his mouth. Rythian paused his whistling and looked up.

"All right, Parvis?" he inquired innocently.

"Shut the fuck up," Parvis snarled at him.

Rythian raised his eyebrows. "Something wrong?"

"You fucking  _ know _ what's wrong, you smug bastard," he spat.

"Do I, Parvis? I thought you were doing quite well, but we can shorten your lead if need be."

"That's  _ not _ what I mean!" Parvis said. He got to his feet, driven by the steaming pressure in his chest. "It's not  _ working _ right, it's not  _ enough _ anymore, it barely feels like  _ anything!" _

"Yes," said Rythian, "and?"

"I can't—I want—" He gave up on that line of thought and changed tack.  _ "You _ said it would be all right!"

"I don't recall ever saying that, Parvis," Rythian said, turning his eyes back to his work. "But if it'll make you feel better, you can infuse my runes, too. That might give you what you're looking for."

"That's not  _ good _ enough," he said. "Why isn't it  _ working, _ Rythian?"

"I  _ did _ tell you this would happen," he pointed out. "Granted, it was quite some time ago, but I did say, didn't I, that you'd acclimate?"

"I don't care what you said, I want it  _ fixed." _

"Oh, well, if  _ that's _ all," Rythian said. He swung his legs around and sat up, smiling at Parvis. "Would you like me to fix it then, Parvis?"

_ You fucking  _ _ moron, _ Inner Parvis said.

He went cold, and took a half step back.

"N-no," he said. "No, I—I'll . . . if I could do your runes too, I think—I think I'll be fine. . . ."

Rythian shrugged and lay back down.

"Well, if it doesn't work out for you, just say the word," he said.

Parvis forced himself to sit down and keep working, through the pain in his hands and the persistent desperation.

Another hour passed. Seven more runes were completed, and it still wasn't nearly enough—the doses were too small, and too infrequent, and only served to frustrate Parvis further, to tantalize and entice without ever delivering a reward.

The latest rune flashed to life on the floor, sent tingles down Parvis's spine and did very little else.

The pressure vessel in Parvis's chest finally burst, pent-up frustration roaring out through him in a fireball and blasting all other concerns into the far distance, burning up his insides.

"I can't  _ do _ this!" Parvis cried suddenly, throwing down his tools, tears gathering in his eyes. "I can't fucking  _ do _ this anymore!"

"Parvis," Rythian said, laying down his chisel and hammer.

"Don't you fucking  _ Parvis _ me, you smug prick! You planned this, you  _ wanted _ this!"

Rythian sighed and got to his feet. "I really didn't, Parvis. It's just how the magic works."

"Shut up, for fuck's sake, shut  _ up!" _

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to me like that, Parvis," Rythian said. "If you want me to help you, all you have to do is ask."

The fires of frustration had run away with him, and he spoke without thinking.

"Fuck  _ me, _ if it'll make this  _ stop—" _

He found himself pinned against the wall, Rythian's hands on his wrists, the stone cold against his back. There was a momentary flicker of fear, doused immediately by the warmth of Rythian's control. Parvis's thoughts went silent, smothered in cotton, and the runaway emotions burned themselves out. He relaxed into himself, breathing properly for the first time in minutes.

Rythian laced his fingers with Parvis's and kissed him. Parvis locked his knees and let the wall hold him up—there was no way he could do it himself.

"Would you  _ like _ me to fuck you, Parvis?" Rythian asked softly, his lips still brushing Parvis's. "Right here, against the wall, Parvis? Would you like to  _ scream _ for me, Parvis?"

He shivered, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Yes," he breathed.

Rythian pressed his hands back into the wall and kissed him again, rougher, hotter. Parvis hiked up a leg and tried to wrap it around Rythian's waist—Rythian untangled their hands and grabbed his thigh, pulling him closer. His other hand wrapped around Parvis's throat, but did not squeeze, just held him against the wall while Rythian pulled away. Their eyes met, and Parvis lost his breath again.

"It's going to hurt, Parvis," Rythian said.

Parvis's hands found Rythian's belt and fumbled at it.

"I don't care," he said.

"It's  _ really _ going to hurt."

"I don't  _ care," _ he moaned. Nothing could be worse than the ache of needing Rythian so badly and not having him.

"A potion afterwards would make it  _ stop _ hurting," Rythian mused, his head tilting. His claws were pricking at Parvis's leg. "But I don't think I can numb you enough without making the whole exercise pointless."

"I don't fucking  _ care, _ Rythian,  _ fuck me." _

Rythian smiled. "If you insist," he said.

Parvis had managed to unfasten Rythian's trousers by then, and Rythian made quick work of Parvis's, and then he was pushing him into the wall and kissing him with such fervor that he cut his tongue on Parvis's teeth. The tip of Rythian's cock touched Parvis's entrance and Parvis moaned into his mouth. Rythian broke off the kiss and sank his teeth into Parvis's neck, and Parvis cried out, half in pain, half in ecstasy.

Rythian's hand slid around behind him, and the cold, sharp tip of a claw pushed inside him, and Parvis cried out again, his back arching. Already, the tender flesh was starting to burn and sting, and he was glad for it, because without the pain he would have lost himself, lost his body in the flood of warmth, lost all sensation and been cast adrift.

A second finger joined the first, and Parvis cracked the back of his head against the wall, hissing in a breath through gritted teeth, tears stinging his eyes, and he writhed against Rythian, desperate for more, or at least less—for anything but this painful limbo.

Rythian took his mouth off of Parvis's neck just long enough to say, "Two seconds."

Parvis came unhitched. He was floating loose, a mind without a body in a sea of warmth—and then he crashed back into himself, back into the pain and the pleasure and the  _ pain, _ because Rythian was inside him and it was like being torn in half, and he screamed, and dug his fingernails into Rythian's skin, and his legs gave out and it was only by Rythian's strength and the presense of the wall that the two of them remained upright.

And then the pain subsided, of its own accord, and Parvis gasped in a breath and pulled on Rythian with both hands and the leg against his waist, and Rythian obligingly rolled his hips, down and out and up and back in, ending in a sharp thrust that caught against his prostate and made his whole body twitch.

"Please," he begged, reduced to writhing again. "Oh God, please, more,  _ more." _

Rythian repeated the motion, just as slowly, and this time Parvis cried out at the end of it; and then again, and again, accelerating on every repetition until Parvis drew blood with his fingernails, and then Rythian fucked him relentlessly, driving deep and hard and forcing cry after cry of ecstasy from Parvis's lips, his own grunts and moans muffled in the flesh of Parvis's neck.

By the time he finally came, Parvis was drenched in sweat, hoarse and trembling with exhaustion. He went limp, utterly drained, unable even to keep his eyes open, scarcely able to breathe. Rythian went on fucking him for nearly a minute before he, too, finally finished, and sank to the floor, bringing Parvis down into his lap, holding him up so he could stay inside him, slowly going soft.

Rythian kissed the bleeding bite on Parvis's neck, licked the blood away, kissed him on the lips.

"You were so good, Parvis," he murmured. "Such a good boy. Would my good boy like a potion? Wouldn't want you to hurt."

"Mm," said Parvis. Nothing much hurt at the moment, but he could tell that somewhere, under all the endorphins, it was going to.

"Is that a yes, Parvis?"

"Yes," Parvis mumbled.

Rythian shifted, and Parvis sucked in a breath.

"Call me  _ master, _ Parvis," Rythian said softly.

"Yes, master," said Parvis, and felt Rythian shiver underneath him.

"Good boy, Parvis," Rythian said. "Now. Let's get you that potion, hm?"

* * *

 

Rythian had left him in the kitchen with a potion and a blanket and an uncounted number of sweet kisses. Nonetheless, the warmth, the contentment, had drained away almost the moment Rythian had gone down the ladder, and Parvis was left cold and sick, aching and sore.

At least, he reflected, Rythian had let him finish most of the potion first. At least he wasn't in excruciating pain, sitting here alone and cold and sick.

_ What a gentleman, _ Inner Parvis sneered.  _ It'd serve you right.  _ _ Pathetic. _

"Just . . .  _ don't," _ he sighed, wrapping his arms around himself.

_ Don't? You fuck that  _ _ thing, _ _ beg and wriggle and drool and you're telling  _ _ me _ _ to 'don't?' _

"You're not—"

Outside, there was a sound like a miniature thunderclap, followed immediately by a second. Parvis turned his head, breaking off mid-sentence, his brow furrowed. Straining his ears, he thought he could make out the sound of voices. He started to get up out of his chair, every movement a strain on tired muscles.

With a mighty  _ bang, _ the door came crashing in off its hinges. Two men leapt in, glowing swords raised, dressed in green and blue and gold. Parvis toppled out of his chair and struggled back to his feet.

Sjin and Lalna focused their attention on him. Lalna grinned and waved.

"Allo, Parvis!" he said. "We're rescuing you!"

"We're gonna  _ ice _ that mother trucker," Sjin confirmed, turning his head back and forth. "Where is he?"

"Hiding, most likely," said Lalna.

_ "No," _ Parvis whispered, staring at them in horror. He darted across the room and shoved both of them in the chest, trying to push them back out the door.

"Oy, what's this about, then?" Sjin demanded, shoving Parvis right back.

_ "No, _ get out of here, you've  _ got _ to get out of here, he's going to kill you, he's going to  _ kill _ you—" Parvis babbled.

"Rythian? Kill  _ us?" _ Lalna said. He threw his head back and laughed, then clapped Parvis on the shoulder. "We're  _ way _ too powerful to get killed by somebody like  _ Rythian. _ We've been preparing."

"Otherwise we'd've been here sooner," Sjin put in, sheathing his sword. "Just had to put a few things together."

"We've got a whole  _ arsenal," _ Lalna said, his chest inflating. He put his sword away as well. "Rythian's gonna be sorry he ever messed with you, that's for sure."

"If you're not going to kill him then fucking  _ run," _ Parvis snapped. He was shaking so hard that it was making his teeth chatter. He looked over his shoulder at the pit in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"Run?" Sjin said. "We don't run. We're the magic police, and there've  _ clearly _ been laws broken here. Has he even got a license? I bet not."

"Er," Lalna said, scratching the back of his head, "we  _ are _ probably going to have to arrest you, too. Y'know. For unlicensed magic." He brightened. "But at least you won't have to worry about Rythian anymore!"

"You don't  _ understand," _ Parvis said, his voice cracking. He looked over his shoulder again. "You don't  _ get it, _ this isn't a joke, this isn't a—a  _ game, _ he's really,  _ actually _ going to kill you both—"

"Not a chance," said Lalna.

"Rythian doesn't  _ kill _ people," Sjin confirmed. "He talks a lot of talk, but really he's just a big softie."

Parvis looked over his shoulder. Rythian  _ must _ have heard the door come down, must have known what it meant.

He shoved Lalna and Sjin again, throwing his whole body weight into it.

"Get  _ out _ of here,  _ please, _ I'm literally begging you—"

Lalna put his hand against Parvis's chest and pushed him back, gently.

"Look, Parvis. You asked for help. We're here to help! It'll be fine, I promise. We've got armor, weapons—top tier, all of it. He can't even  _ touch _ us."

_ "He doesn't have to!" _ Parvis cried. There was a sound from the kitchen, and his head whipped around. In the moment of inattention, Sjin slid around him.

"Is that where he's hiding?" he asked, craning his neck to look at the hole in the floor.

"No, no no no—"

While Parvis was trying to catch Sjin, Lalna went around his other side and approached the hole as well.

"Figures. He always did like to live in little holes in the ground."

"Not an ounce of style in the man."

"Please, you've  _ got _ to listen to me, you don't understand what you're doing—"

"Relax, Parvis," Lalna said over his shoulder, smiling easily. "We've got this."

There was a silken noise and a purple blur. Rythian alighted on the lip of the pit, took in the scene at a glance, and lit up like Christmas morning.

"You have  _ no idea _ how happy I am to see you," he said to Sjin and Lalna, his voice laden with barely-contained glee.

Sjin stilled and relaxed on the instant. Lalna's hand made it all the way to his sword before he wound down. Parvis's body had ceased communicating with him, and he could only stand there, mute and motionless.

"We're here to . . . stop you," Lalna said vaguely, blinking.

_ "Are _ you?" Rythian cried, delighted. He rounded the table and dropped into an empty chair. "Going to put me under arrest, Lalna? Going to lock me up and throw away the key?"

"Y-yeah," said Lalna, frowning. "Yeah, I guess. Yeah."

Rythian grinned. Parvis's blood ran cold.

"Oh,  _ Lalna. _ Sit down, please, both of you."

Sjin drifted over and deposited himself in a chair. Lalna put up more resistance, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, but ended up seated anyway.

"I don't think we should do him, Lalna," Sjin said vaguely. "He's harmless, really."

"Listen to your partner, Lalna," Rythian said.

"No, he's . . . not making sense. . . ." Lalna mumbled.

_ "Not making sense,  _ what are you talking about, Lalna? I'm not _ hurting _ anyone. At the moment. Later, of course, I'm going to cut you open and crush your beating heart in my bare hands." His eyes twinkled. "Won't that just be  _ delightful?" _

"Uh," said Lalna, his frown deepening, "no?"

"No? Oh, I think you'll be very happy to die like that, after you watch what I do to Sjin." He turned his grin on the other man. "I'm going to hang your skin up on my wall. For art! It'll be very stylish," he explained.

"Oh?" said Sjin, smiling placidly. "That sounds lovely."

"See? That's the kind of enthusiasm I like to see. Unlike  _ you, _ Lalna, who have been playing with things you shouldn't. Did you find one of my little books?"

"There was a . . . book, yeah," Lalna mumbled. His eyes had come unfocused. "Sorry, did you—did you say you were going to  _ skin Sjin?" _

"Yes! And then I'm going to take him apart like an anatomical model. It'll be very scientific, Lalna, you'll love it."

"That's . . . not all right," said Lalna.

"Sjin doesn't mind," Rythian pointed out.  _ "Do _ you, Sjin?"

"Not at all," Sjin said. He looked concussed.

"See?"

"Seems wrong," Lalna said, and nodded to himself. "Yeah. Seems wrong, doin' that."

Rythian tipped his head to the side. Without taking his eyes off Lalna, he turned his head towards Parvis.

"Do you want to see something funny?" he asked, a smile playing over his lips.

_ God, no, _ Inner Parvis said, recoiling.  _ I've got no interest in whatever your sick sense of humor is. _

Parvis said nothing. Rythian grinned and giggled to himself.

"Watch this," he said.

Parvis, much as he wanted to look away, watched.

"You know," Rythian remarked, kicking his feet up onto the table and lacing his fingers behind his head, "I've always thought you two deserved each other. Romantically speaking. I wonder if you've ever had the same idea?"

"With . . . Sjin?" Lalna said. His lip tried to curl. "Nah, 's not . . . not my type. . . ."

"Always been rather occupied with other people," Sjin admitted.

"No time like the present!" Rythian chirped. His teeth glittered. "Now kiss."

Lalna recoiled slightly, and had just opened his mouth to say something when Sjin took his face in his hands and kissed him. Lalna sat there blinking, neither reciprocating nor pulling away, his spine ramrod-straight.

Rythian laughed.

"You know, Lalna, I've changed my mind. I'm  _ glad _ you found my little book. This wouldn't be nearly as much fun if I couldn't see you  _ screaming _ behind your eyes."

Sjin was still kissing him, trying to climb into his lap.

"Rythian,  _ stop," _ Parvis croaked. He felt like a painting trying to peel itself off the wall, unable to intervene, frozen in time and space and there mostly for decoration.

"Why?" Rythian asked, tapping his toes to some inaudible tune. "I think I can get them to fuck on the floor if I'm delicate."

Lalna made a strangled little noise, his hand clenching on the table, and Rythian laughed again.

_ "Stop it," _ Parvis insisted, his stomach churning.

"He'll be enjoying it by the time it gets that far," Rythian assured him. "He's cracking already. Never had any discipline, did you, Lalna?"

"Rythian, please, there's no  _ point." _

"It's  _ hilarious, _ that's the  _ point," _ Rythian said, while Sjin tangled his hands in Lalna's hair. Lalna's eyelids fluttered, and his breath hitched. "See? Already. Even  _ you  _ put up more resistance. I give it fifteen seconds before he gives up."

"Stop it, Rythian,  _ please." _ He was going to be sick. He could see Lalna crumbling under the onslaught, could see the tension easing from his spine, the fear fading from his eyes.

"You didn't raise any objections when I was talking about  _ actually _ torturing them," Rythian pointed out. "They're  _ enjoying _ this—well, mostly—and yet, you're treating me as if I'm some kind of monster for—oh, there he goes."

Lalna's eyes had fallen closed, and his hand had slid off the table and onto Sjin's waist. He pulled the other man into his lap and pressed up into the kiss. Sjin's hands trailed over his neck and onto his chest.

"Rythian,  _ please, _ for the love of God—"

"Three minutes," he said. "Give me three minutes, I'll have them going at it like rabbits.  _ Disgusting. _ I love it."

Lalna's hands had slid under Sjin's shirt, and Sjin was grinding down against him.

"This is wrong," Parvis whispered to himself, unable to look away, "this is so  _ wrong." _

"Oh,  _ fine," _ Rythian sighed, rolling his eyes. "If it'll get you to shut up. But I want you to know that they could have had a few more minutes—very pleasant minutes, at that—to live, and you took it from them."

Both Lalna and Sjin wound down, until they were sitting still with their foreheads resting together, their breath coming short. Rythian took his feet down from the table and stood up. He crossed to Sjin and Lalna and put a hand on the back of each of their heads.

"I'm going to go downstairs now," he said softly, "and play with my new toys until they break. You can come watch, if you want."

"Can I  _ not _ watch if I want?" Parvis asked, struggling to keep his dinner in his stomach.

Rythian smiled.

"Yes, Parvis. You can do that."

Rythian lifted his hands, and Lalna and Sjin got to their feet, hollow-eyed and lethargic. Rythian led them away, gentle and composed and smiling all the while. They followed him like cattle.

Parvis sank to the floor and stared down at his hands, blinking away tears, swallowing down nausea, unable to force himself to move, even when sounds began to drift up from below, distant and indistinct but unmistakeable in character.

The screaming went on for  _ hours. _

* * *

 

When the silence had stretched long enough and thin enough to be broken again, Parvis went down to the altar room. He had steeled himself as best he could. He knew he was not prepared for what he would find down there, and he went anyway, because there was nothing else he could do.

There was a lot of blood, on the floor and the walls and all over the altar, even spattered on the ceiling—he'd expected that. Fleshy tubes and sacs and assorted bits were strewn on the floor. A wide and ragged expanse of skin had been nailed to the wall, dripping rusty lines of blood. There was something on the altar, no longer recognizable as human.

Rythian was sitting with his back to the wall, his arms draped over his knees. He was drenched in blood. It slicked his hair back, smeared his mouth, coated his arms up to the elbows. His shirt clung to his chest.

He was staring through the far wall, looking hollow and exhausted.

"I'm so  _ tired, _ Parvis," he murmured, as Parvis halted on the threshold. "I can't remember the last time I slept. How long has it been since I slept?"

"I don't know," Parvis said. The turmoil in his head and guts had not settled. The best he could muster of any kind of feeling was pity. "More than a month."

The corner of Rythian's mouth twitched. "I'm so  _ tired, _ Parvis. There just hasn't been time. . . ."

Parvis made his way over to him, stepping over pieces of Lalna and Sjin. He sat down next to Rythian, mimicking his posture.

"There's time now," he said.

Rythian shook his head. "It's never that easy, Parvis," he said, and then sighed out a laugh. "Besides, you'd kill me in my sleep."

Parvis considered this, and found it to be true.

"Would that be so bad?" he asked.

Rythian leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyes drift closed.

"Maybe not," he said. "Maybe not."

They sat in silence for a time.

"Why?" Parvis asked at last.

Rythian shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. "Because I hated them." He sighed, and the smile faded. "But not anymore. I'm so  _ tired, _ Parvis. . . ."

"You can sleep," said Parvis. "It's . . . it's all right."

"Oh,  _ Parvis," _ Rythian said. His eyes cracked open, still staring at nothing. There was blood gumming his eyelashes together. "I wish it was still up to me."

"Let me help you," he said. His voice shook.

"Too late for that, I'm afraid. Predicated on self-defense. I don't think we have very long. I hate myself too much to ever stick around for very long."

"No," Parvis said, blinking back tears. "There's  _ time, _ Rythian."

"Soon," Rythian said softly. He shut his eyes again. "Soon, Parvis. All the time in the world."

Parvis gripped Rythian's sleeve.

"Please, no," he begged, his voice thick. "Please don't go back there.  _ Please _ don't leave me here, not here, not with  _ you!" _

"I'm sorry, Parvis," he murmured. "I tried. I really did try. I'm just . . . so  _ tired. . . ." _

In desperation, Parvis shook him. His head lolled.

"Please, no," he whispered.

Rythian opened his eyes.

The warmth started in Parvis's toes.

He just managed to shed his tears before it swallowed him whole.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is really, intensely gory. Prepare accordingly.

The next week passed in a haze—runes were carved, pigs were slaughtered, there was a lot of sex—and by the end of it Parvis had reached a single conclusion.

Rythian was a drug that he couldn't quit.

It happened over and over and over again, the same way every time. Maybe he'd been alone for too long, or he'd been sleeping, or the frustration of the infusions got to be too much; there was the inevitable crack from the strain, unleashing unbearable feelings of guilt or fear or anger; and Rythian would offer to fix it and Parvis couldn't say no.

To Rythian's credit, it always ended up fixed, for at _least_ the next half hour.

And then it would start all over again, and Parvis would _swear_ to himself that it wouldn't end the same way, and in six to twelve hours his oaths were lying shattered on the floor under his feet.

The only reprieve had been when Parvis had volunteered to slaughter one of the pigs, and Rythian had let him. Then the magic had filled in all his empty spaces, done Rythian's work for him and kept Parvis calm and happy through the rest of the day and night, and most of the next morning.

He couldn't get the smell of blood off him.

Rythian upgraded the altar without him, in the middle of the night while he slept. He only knew because the change had suddenly sucked all the breath out of him, and he'd woken up suffocating. Rythian hadn't come when he'd called, frightened and desperate, and so he'd gone down to the altar room to find him.

Rythian had been delighted to see him.

Parvis couldn't remember anything else about the eight hours that had followed, no matter how hard he tried.

* * *

 

There was a Nether portal in the old thaumaturgy room, set into the wall where the essentia had been. The jars were all gone now, vanished away somewhere without a trace. The portal gurgled and whispered and painted the room with lurid purple light.

"I'm not going to have to go in there, am I?" Parvis asked, eyeing it.

"Yes, but you'll be fine," Rythian assured him. "I'll make you some armor while you're doing the runes today. I'll make sure you're safe."

Parvis's stomach dropped. "You mean . . . you're not going to be there while I'm doing the runes?"

"Not today, unfortunately," he said. "It'll be all right. Just kill a pig, the altar needs more blood anyway. It's not anywhere _near_ full, not since we upgraded it."

He made a face. "We'll run out of pigs soon."

"It won't be an issue for long," Rythian promised, and kissed his cheek. "Don't _worry,_ Parvis. I'm taking good care of you. If worse comes to worst, I'll find more pigs. Okay?"

"Okay," said Parvis, sulkily. The kiss was still tingling on his cheek, driving back the darkness.

From upstairs came the sound of a knock, firm but too rapid.

Parvis turned to look at Rythian, horrified; Rythian turned to look at Parvis, grinning.

"Like _lemmings,_ Parvis," he said, his voice full of wonder. "I had no idea you had so many _friends."_

Parvis snatched Rythian's sleeve in both hands.

"Please, no," he begged, already on the verge of tears. "Rythian, please, not again—"

"Oh, but Parvis, it solves your pig worries so neatly," Rythian pointed out. "Don't worry. I'll still let you do the slaughtering."

Parvis dropped to his knees, his stomach churning. "No, no, _no,_ please don't make me do this, Rythian, please, _anything but this."_

"I'm not going to make you do anything," Rythian said. "But if you need any _help. . . ."_

"No! I don't _want_ to want this, please, just pretend we're not home, just let them _go!"_

The knock came again. Rythian looked up at the top of the pit.

"I wonder who it is," he mused.

"I can't kill anyone!" Parvis squeaked, tugging on Rythian's sleeve.

"Oh, _Parvis,"_ Rythian sighed, extracting himself from his grip. He took Parvis's hands and gently pulled him to his feet. "If _you_ don't kill them, _I will."_

Parvis's stomach lurched. Rythian smiled.

"I can see that you understand me. Let's go greet our guest, shall we, Parvis? Put on a brave face, there's a good boy."

He followed Rythian up the ladder and to the front door, his mind buzzing like a nest of hornets.

 _Hit him very hard in the back of the head,_ Inner Parvis told him, _and then run like hell._

Rythian, with his hand on the doorknob, looked over his shoulder at Parvis.

"It will all be over soon," he said softly, and opened the door.

Martyn shrank back first, half-raising his hands in a gesture somewhere between defense and surrender. He mastered himself quickly, though; he straightened up, lifted his chin, and looked Rythian right in the eyes.

"I'm here for Parvis," he said, his voice full of conterfeit confidence.

Rythian's head tipped to the side. "Oh, my. He has a thing for blonds, doesn't he." He looked over his shoulder at Parvis and winked. "I feel so special now."

"Parv?" Martyn said, leaning around Rythian to look at Parvis. "Er . . . got your letter!"

Parvis stood there trembling, unable to speak. Dread was gnawing at his insides, consuming him slowly.

"Parvis is having a difficult day," Rythian explained, sounding for all the world like a grade-school teacher. "I'm sure he's glad to see you. He's just having trouble expressing himself. Please, come in."

Fear twisted Martyn's cherubic face for a moment before he got himself under control again and shook his head.

"No, thank you. I'm just here for Parvis. And I'll—I'll be leaving with him." He caved slightly. "If that's all right."

"And what if I tell you _no?"_ Rythian inquired, amused.

Martyn paled, but stayed resolute.

"Then . . . I'm afraid I'll have to resort to violence!"

"Oh, dear. We wouldn't want that, I'm sure."

He brightened. "You mean—you'll let him go?"

Parvis couldn't see Rythian's face, but he could hear the grin in his voice.

"No, Martyn," he said, "that's not _at all_ what I mean."

"I—I—well, y-you've given me no choice!" Martyn squeaked. He stepped back into something approximating a fighting stance and raised his fists, which began to glow electric blue.

"You know, Martyn," Rythian remarked, unmoved. "Because I'm such a good sport, I'll let you have one hit for free. Give me all you've got."

 _If you fuck this up now, I will_ _ kill  _ _you,_ Inner Parvis hissed.

Martyn got even paler, but set his jaw and squared his shoulders and gulped.

"All right," he warned, "b-but you asked for it!"

He struck with both hands, palms-forward. There was an ear-splitting _crack_ and a blinding flash of blue light, and something heavy hit the back wall with a loud _thump._

Parvis, still blinking the afterimages from his eyes, found his wrist grasped in a sweating hand.

 _"Run!"_ Martyn cried. "Run, run, run!"

He dragged Parvis from the house, while Parvis tripped over his own feet. He looked back over his shoulder, gaping.

Rythian was crumpled on the floor, smoke rising from his chest. There were char marks on the wall behind him.

"You've killed him," Parvis mumbled, struggling to keep his feet underneath him as Martyn hauled him along, sprinting full-tilt across the landscape.

"Good! It's a lot harder for dead people to kill you! _Keep running!"_

Parvis looked back again.

Rythian was standing in the doorway, his eyes so red and so bright that Parvis could see them even from far away. He tripped, fell, pulled Martyn down with him.

 _"Fuck,"_ he hissed. Fear was swiftly filling in every spare inch of his body. He scrambled back to his feet. Martyn was doing the same—Parvis saw him look back and go white with terror.

"Go, _go,_ I'll hold him off!" Martyn cried, shoving Parvis in the back and turning to face Rythian.

He was ambling towards them, unhurried. Parvis cursed again, more vehemently, and grabbed Martyn's wrist.

He made it two steps before the power hit him, driving him to his knees, squeezing the breath out of him and filling his head with cotton. He saw Martyn tumble down next to him, and felt nothing.

Rythian got there in his own time. Parvis could smell charred flesh and burned cloth, the sharp scent of ozone.

He felt a hand on the back of his head, and it encouraged him to rise. He got to his feet.

 _No!_ Inner Parvis screamed, although he sounded immensely distant.

"I'll admit," Rythian said, helping Martyn to his feet, "I'm impressed."

Parvis put his hand in Rythian's when it was offered. Rythian led both of them away, walking backwards, returning to the house. There was a hole burned in his shirt, just over his heart. The skin underneath was pale and shiny.

 _We're_ _ fucked,  _ Inner Parvis decided. _We're so fucking_ _ fucked.  _

Rythian brought them inside, sent them both down the ladder ahead of him to wait in the old thaumaturgy room. There, in the squirming purple light of the Nether portal, Parvis finally remembered how to think.

Rythian slid down the ladder, alighting at the bottom on feather-light feet. He considered the two of them with his head to one side, wearing an expression of utmost satisfaction.

"Rythian—" Parvis began, his voice coming out hoarse.

"Shh," Rythian said, holding up a finger. "I'm gloating."

He crossed to Martyn, caressed his cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"What a clever little thing you are," he murmured. Martyn shivered as Rythian brushed the fringe off his forehead. "What a sweet little thing."

"He—he hasn't done anything to you," Parvis said.

"Whatever are you talking about, Parvis?" Rythian asked, tracing the outer edge of Martyn's ear with a claw.

"You don't have to do this," Parvis said. "Not like—not like Lalna and Sjin. _Please,_ not like that."

"Oh, _Parvis,"_ Rythian sighed. He trailed a claw down Martyn's neck to his collar, and back up again. Martyn's eyes fluttered closed, his lips parted. "So naïve."

"You've got . . . no reason to hate him," Parvis pleaded. "You don't have to _do_ this!"

"No," Rythian allowed, "but I'm going to anyway. Hating the person in question isn't a requirement, love. It's just a nice little bonus."

Parvis's blood curdled.

"Rythian, _please,_ don't do this, not to him. He's never hurt anyone, he doesn't deserve it."

"Maybe you missed the part where he tried to kill me," Rythian said, tracing Martyn's jugular with one knuckle. "That hurt quite a lot."

"It's—not his _fault,_ Rythian, it's mine, take it out on _me—"_

"Would you like to do anything with him before we start?" Rythian inquired, playing with the hair on the back of Martyn's head. "He'll be useless afterwards."

His fingers brushed some sweet spot on Martyn's scalp, and Martyn sighed, leaning into the touch. Rythian kissed the top of his head.

"Well," he amended, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. _"Mostly_ useless."

Parvis's mouth went dry. He could see it even now—the limp body, the ruinous ecstasy on Rythian's face, the blood spattering and smearing and trickling and dripping—

 _Stop_ _ picturing  _ _it, you sick freak,_ Inner Parvis spat.

"But some things are best done with the toys intact," Rythian went on. He met Parvis's gaze and held it—Parvis couldn't look away no matter how he tried. "Especially if you feel like sharing."

"Please don't do this," Parvis whispered.

Rythian sighed and rolled his eyes, and kissed Martyn's head again.

"I don't know why I expected anything different. _Fine,_ if that's what you want. I don't understand what your objection is to letting people die happy."

"I don't want him to die _at all,"_ Parvis choked.

"Maybe," Rythian suggested, looking down at Martyn through eyes half-lidded, "you should have thought of that before you decided to whore yourself out for _rescue."_

Parvis's jaw dropped, his heart skipped a beat.

"I—I'm s-sorry," he stammered, because it was probably a safe bet and because his brain had slipped a cog and was whirring uselessly.

"Oh, _Parvis,"_ Rythian said. Absently, he tilted Martyn's face up and kissed him on the lips. "I'm not _angry_ with you. I'm actually quite pleased with the way things are working out. I just find your reactions a little strange. I mean—you didn't _expect_ this?"

"I—I—no, I just—I was scared, I w-wasn't thinking—"

"Mm, no, I expect you weren't," Rythian said. He traced Martyn's jaw with a single claw, still playing with his hair with his other hand. "Parvis, I know _you're_ not interested in giving him a send-off, but would you mind terribly if I helped myself? They're just so _pretty_ when they're like this. . . ."

"I _do_ mind!" Parvis squeaked. His blood was burning, but there was ice in his stomach.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," Rythian remarked. He kissed Martyn again, and for longer. Martyn leaned into him, clutching weakly at his shirt.

"Stop it!" Parvis cried, revolted. "Stop it, stop—stop _fucking with his head!"_

Rythian looked up at Parvis. A smile spread across his face like blood creeping along a flat stone floor.

"And I thought _I_ was cruel," he said, his voice low and dark. "But if you insist, Parvis. . . ."

The lights came back on behind Martyn's eyes. His face went slack with horror. Rythian's hand tightened in his hair in the instant before he started struggling, lashing out at Rythian and screaming. Rythian grabbed his throat and squeezed, claws puncturing soft flesh. Martyn went still, stood there wheezing and trembling and staring up at Rythian in terror.

"I didn't mean—" Parvis began, pleading.

"Yes, you did," Rythian interrupted. "And now you have to deal with the consequences. I'll stay out of his head, _just_ because you asked me to."

"Stop," he whispered, fighting down nausea.

"It stops when he's dead, Parvis," Rythian said.

Martyn twitched in his grasp, whimpering. Rythian laughed.

"Go on," he invited, "give me your best shot."

Martyn drove a knee at Rythian's groin. Rythian pivoted on one heel and dodged the blow entirely. He threw Martyn to the ground so hard that something cracked audibly. Martyn cried out. Rythian took a knee next to him and put a hand on his chest; it might as well have been an anvil for all Martyn was able to move under it.

"Parvis," Rythian said, keeping his eyes on Martyn's face, "in that chest over there—" he flicked his free hand at the nearest wall— "there should be some nice _long_ nails. Get them for me, please."

 _"No,"_ Martyn wheezed, his eyes gone wide and wild. He kicked futilely, clawing at Rythian's hand and arm. Rythian only smiled.

"No," Parvis said, shaking his head. "I can't—I won't—"

"Well, you won't have to, if you just kill him now," Rythian said. "Although I assume you'd want to do that within range of the altar, otherwise, hah, it's just _murder."_

"I _can't,"_ Parvis repeated, his voice cracking.

"Yes, you can," Rythian said. "You're the one who wanted me out of his head, and I can't very well have him trying to claw my eyes out while I'm disembowelling him. So you'll—"

He was cut off by Martyn's frantic screaming. Frowning, Rythian put a finger to Martyn's lips.

"There's a time and a place, my angel," he said, "and this is neither."

Martyn bit him. Rythian struck him across the face, splitting his lip. Martyn's eyes came unfocused, and his body went loose and uncoordinated.

"Much better," Rythian praised. "Parvis, I'm going to take my toy down to the altar room. I would appreciate not having to come back up here to get the nails myself."

"I'm not doing it," Parvis whispered, tears in his eyes.

Rythian looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"No? Just going to leave him all alone with me? I don't suppose you'll mind, then, if I play around in his head a little. . . ."

Martyn's eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a shuddering sigh. Rythian leaned down and kissed him, and he moaned.

Before he knew what he was doing, Parvis closed the distance between them and physically hauled Rythian off of Martyn. Rythian looked up at him and grinned. Martyn's blood glistened on his lips. His hand closed around Parvis's wrist, and his grip was iron.

"I'll take that as a _no,"_ he commented.

"Leave him _alone,"_ Parvis said, shaking all over.

"I will," Rythian said. "As soon as he's dead."

Parvis reeled a fist back to knock the smile right off of Rythian's face. Rythian hit first, a surgical strike to Parvis's brainstem, taking his emotions off at the knees and leaving his mind tumbling in slow chaos.

Parvis's fist slid back down, and the hand gripping Rythian's shirt slackened. Rythian got to his feet and brushed himself off.

There was a groan, and a scuffling noise. Parvis turned his head, dully curious. Martyn was trying drunkenly to get to his feet.

Rythian clicked his teeth, shaking his head, and gently moved Parvis out of the way. He took hold of Martyn's forearms and coaxed him towards the stairs that led down to the altar room.

"There's a good boy," he murmured, while Martyn put up feeble resistance. "The nails, please, Parvis. There should be a hammer in there, too."

Parvis's body crossed to the chest against the nearest wall. His hands rooted around until they found the nails—four inches long, flaked with rust, horribly dull; and the hammer, cold and heavy—and then he was up and walking again, following Rythian's commands mindlessly.

 _No,_ Inner Parvis said. _You_ _ have  _ _to fight. You_ _ have  _ _to fight back, right now, you can't let this happen._

He went down the stairs, swayed on his feet when Rythian told him to stand still.

 _For fuck's sake, at least kill him,_ Inner Parvis begged. _Get it over with,_ _ now,  _ _please!_

Rythian set Martyn down on the floor and plucked the hammer and nails from Parvis's unresisting hands. He knelt on Martyn's wrist, rested the tip of the first nail in his palm.

"No," Martyn slurred, rolling onto his side, fumbling at Rythian's shoulder. "No, _no—"_

"The time and place, in case you were wondering," Rythian remarked, lining up his strike, "is here . . . and . . . _now."_

The hammer came down. Martyn screamed, thrashing. Metal rang out against metal six times before Rythian sat back, smiling to himself. Blood pooled under Martyn's hand, and he clutched his own wrist, rolling back and forth on the floor.

"One down," Rythian commented brightly, "one to go!"

 _"No!"_ Martyn screamed. He tried to pull his hand free. Rythian caught his other wrist and brought it down to the floor with a slow and inexorable pressure. Martyn went right on thrashing, even when Rythian drove a second nail through his other palm, deep into the stone below.

Rythian tossed the hammer away carelessly, then threw a leg over Martyn's body and sat on his hips.

"Feeling merciful yet, Parvis?" he inquired, raising his voice to be heard over Martyn's screaming.

"Stop," Parvis whispered, sick to his stomach. His skin prickled and crawled, and he dug his fingernails into his arm to quell the sensation.

"Well, let me know when you get there," Rythian said. He drew the knife from his belt and examined it, turning it from side to side so it caught the light. He placed the very tip of it on Martyn's belly, and the screaming stopped instantly.

"No, no, don't let me stop you," Rythian said magnanimously. "I just need to get your shirt out of the way. Feel free to continue screaming, it's lovely."

"P-please," Martyn stammered, tears slipping down the sides of his face. "Please, I—I'll . . . I'll do anything you want. . . ."

"Everyone _always_ leads with that," Rythian remarked, shaking his head. He gripped the hem of Martyn's shirt in one hand and brought the knife up underneath. It cut through the fabric with barely a pause. Martyn whimpered, pushing his heels against the floor as though he could somehow back away from the man sitting on his hips.

"Does no one ever consider," Rythian went on, touching the knife to Martyn's bare chest, "that I'm already _getting_ what I want?"

"Please, n-no, don't—"

Rythian bore down, a quick little flick of the blade that drew a bright red line on Martyn's skin. Martyn cried out sharply and tried to buck Rythian off. Rythian threw his head back and laughed.

"Don't _tempt_ me, Martyn," he warned, his voice gone sultry. "Now. Do you want Parvis's name, or mine?"

"I—I—I—"

"You're right, mine's longer," Rythian said, heedless. He brought the knife back down. His hand moved slowly, carefully. Martyn screamed and went on screaming, as Rythian carved letter after letter into the flesh of his chest. Parvis heard the telltale scrape of blade on bone.

His knees gave out, and he threw up. His skin was crawling, like a million ants had gotten underneath and were swarming all over him.

"Oh, dear," said Rythian, _"that's_ not centered at all. It's fine, here, I'll just put _Parvis_ above it, and a little more to the left, and then it'll be nice and symmetrical. . . ."

Martyn was just screaming _no,_ over and over, still trying to free his hands, still kicking his feet uselessly against the floor.

Parvis made the mistake of looking up. Rythian was bent over Martyn's chest, his tongue poking out between his lips, slicing line after ragged line into Martyn's skin. His gaze got stuck, like watching a train wreck. He dug his fingernails into his own shoulder and started scratching, trying to claw the ants out, trying to make himself look away, even for a moment.

 _"R . . . V . . . I,"_ Rythian said to himself. "Honestly, wriggling around like that is only making this more painful. I mean, hah, don't _stop,_ I just thought you should know."

 _"Parvis!"_ Martyn screamed, thrashing under Rythian's knife. _"Help me!"_

Rythian looked up, right into Parvis's eyes.

"Yes, Parvis," he said softly. "Help him."

Blood was trickling down Parvis's arm. He kept scratching at the skin anyway, beacause the pain was the only thing keeping him from throwing up again.

"No," he moaned, shaking his head. Tears crawled down his cheeks. "No, I _can't._ Please, Rythian, I—not on my own, I just—just help me, please—"

"I will," Rythian promised, "when you help _him."_

"I _can't,_ not like this—"

"You _said_ you didn't want to want this," he said. "I would never make you do something you don't want, Parvis."

"Rythian, _please—"_

The knife bore down again, cutting deep into Martyn's belly, gutting him. He screamed and screamed and _screamed,_ all the fleshy things inside him jiggling and wriggling as he struggled.

"Whenever you're ready, Parvis," Rythian said, setting the knife aside. He cracked his knuckles.

"Stop it, _stop it!"_ Parvis cried.

Rythian slid a hand into Martyn's stomach, his eyes half-closed. Martyn writhed, sharp cries hiccuping through his lips. White was showing all the way around his eyes.

"The difficult part," Rythian said dreamily, "is pulling hard enough to get them to come _out."_

Parvis clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. He still heard the terrible ripping noise, the scream that tore Martyn's voice into silence before it was halfway through.

"No, no, no, no, no," he whimpered, rocking back and forth, digging his fingernails into his scalp.

Something hot and wet and sticky bounced off his arm. He screamed and scrambled away, and Rythian laughed at him.

 _"Par-_ vis," he scolded. "This is over as soon as you want it to be."

 _"No!"_ he cried, shielding his face with a hand.

"He has so _many_ more organs, Parvis. I could do this for _hours."_

There was a little squelching noise, and Martyn whimpered. Parvis threw up in his mouth.

 _"Martyn_ would want you to do it," Rythian went on. "Wouldn't you, Martyn? Wouldn't you like to die now?"

Martyn made a low keening noise, broken up by gasping breaths.

 _"Wouldn't_ you, Martyn," Rythian snarled. Martyn screamed.

 _"There's three parts to love,"_ Parvis sang under his breath, pressing his forehead to the floor, crushing his ears against his head with the palms of his hands, _"or so I believe—"_

And even that couldn't drown out the wet tearing noise, or the screaming that followed, just the word _please_ over and over again, the voice ragged and raw. He was choking on the smell of blood, his skin trying to crawl off his body, his veins full of hot tar.

 _He can't survive this,_ Inner Parvis stated coldly. _He's already dead. Even_ _ if  _ _you get him to stop, it's too late. It's_ _ too late,  _ _Parvis. Get_ _ up.  _

_"There's a part of you you lose—"_ he whimpered. His scalp was bleeding under his fingernails.

"Listen to him sing for you, Martyn," Rythian said. "I wonder how many songs he knows."

 _Get up,_ said Inner Parvis. _You don't have a choice._

"No," Martyn gasped. "No, please, _no!"_

"Look!" Rythian chirped, delighted. "I can just wrap it _around_ and _around_ and _around—"_

 _Stop this,_ Inner Parvis insisted. _For the love of God._

Parvis shoved himself to his feet. His vision was blurred with tears, and he couldn't stop whimpering, and his lungs were full of fire. Rythian was methodically winding a fleshy tube around his wrist. Martyn's face had gone slack, his body convulsing weakly.

Parvis staggered over to him and dropped to his knees.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, fumbling for the knife, his eyes fixed on the motions of his hands. "I'm sorry, Martyn, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry."_

Rythian had gone quiet, and was sitting very still. Blood dripped from the ends of his fingers. He wore an expression of mild curiosity.

Parvis found the knife. With shaking hands, he put it to Martyn's throat.

And held it there, paralyzed. Martyn's eyes were still moving, twitching back and forth; he was still breathing, short and irregular gasps and sighs and whimpers; Parvis could see the pulse in his neck, hummingbird-quick.

Rythian yanked on his handful of intestines. Martyn gasped and twitched.

"Make it stop, Parvis," Rythian murmured. "Make it stop."

And Parvis, with tears streaming down his cheeks, slit Martyn's throat.

Blood spurted out and spattered Parvis's arms and hands and face. Martyn convulsed, just once. He died with his eyes open, and Parvis watched the lights go out as the glorious, terrible rush of the magic flowed through him, mingling with the horror and the fear and the guilt, exacerbating rather than soothing them.

He knelt over Martyn's body, tears dripping from his nose and chin, and trembled harder and harder with every passing heartbeat until he felt he would shake himself to pieces.

"Good boy, Parvis," Rythian said softly.

Screaming, Parvis plunged the knife into Rythian's chest. Rythian sat still and let him do it, and then wrapped his hands around Parvis's wrists.

"It's all right," he said. "It's all right now, Parvis."

Parvis sobbed, turning to putty in Rythian's hands, coming apart where he knelt.

 _"Make it stop,"_ he begged.

"Yes, Parvis," Rythian said.

And the numbness came, and Parvis surrendered to it entirely.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sam for in/advertently inspiring this chapter's hap'nins.

Parvis lay curled up in bed for three days without moving. He couldn't get the image of Martyn's face out of his head, couldn't get the screams to stop ringing in his ears. The idea of going to Rythian—for _any_ kind of assistance, ever again—was abhorrent to him.

Somewhere along the way, he'd decided to starve to death. There were worse ways to go. He knew for a _fact_ that there were worse ways to go.

Once, Rythian had knocked. Parvis hadn't answered. Rythian had gone away again, never having said a word.

On the evening of the third day, he knocked again.

"Parvis," he said softly, his voice muffled by the wood. "I'm coming in."

Parvis lay still and stared at the wall.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _if I try very hard, I can die right now._

Rythian pushed the door open and slipped inside. He closed it again behind him.

"I know you don't want to see me," he said, "or hear from me, or have anything to do with me. But it's been three days, Parvis, and I'm worried about you."

 _Just stop beating,_ he instructed his heart. _It's not like it's hard._

"I understand that you're upset. You have every right to be upset. But please, Parvis, _please_ don't take it out on yourself. What happened wasn't your fault. It was mine—entirely mine—and I'm still coming to terms with it, too, but this isn't the way to do it. Giving up isn't going to solve anything. So please, be angry with _me,_ hate _me,_ but while you're doing it would you _please_ get out of bed and eat something, because God help me, Parvis, I can't just sit around watching you kill yourself."

"You said, _never again,"_ Parvis croaked, his voice rusty from disuse, weak as the rest of him. "You _swore."_

"I said I wouldn't hurt _you_ again," he responded. "And I _haven't,_ Parvis, and I _won't,_ and I swear to you—I'm swearing to you right now—that what happened to Martyn will never happen to anyone else. Not by my hands."

"Don't. Say. His. Name," Parvis said, pausing for breath between each word. He probably would have been crying, if he hadn't been so dehydrated.

"All right," said Rythian. "All right, Parvis. Anything you say."

 _Ask him to kill you,_ Inner Parvis suggested dryly. _At least then it'll be_ _ over.  _

"Kill me," said Parvis.

"Oh, _Parvis,"_ Rythian said, his voice thick with pain. "Oh, Parvis, _no."_

"How'm I supposed to live with myself?" he asked.

"It wasn't your _fault,_ Parvis."

"I felt him die," he went on, sick to his stomach. "I _liked_ it."

"Parvis, I—" Rythian began, and broke off with a sigh. Parvis felt a weight settle onto the bed behind him.

"If you touch me, I'm going to break your fucking fingers," Parvis said, without much venom.

"It's not your fault," Rythian said again. "What you did, what you felt—that's what blood magic _does_ to you. It wasn't you. And I . . . I'll accept responsibility for bringing you into it. But you _can_ heal from this, Parvis, if you give yourself time."

 _"Time,"_ he spat. "I'll have all the time in the world when I'm _dead."_

"Parvis, please, don't do this to yourself."

 _"Martyn_ hasn't got time to heal. Martyn hasn't even got a fucking grave, has he."

"He does, actually," Rythian murmured. "I . . . I buried him. Once I was . . . better."

"Go ahead and start one for me," Parvis said.

"Parvis, _stop it._ I'm not burying you. Not any time soon."

"Is that supposed to make me feel _better?"_

Rythian sighed, and his weight shifted on the bed.

"What do you want, Parvis? What can I do to help?" He added, hurriedly: "Other than killing you, which I'm not going to do."

"Can you make it so it never happened?" he demanded, his fists weakly clenched.

"No, Parvis. I'm afraid I can't."

"Then _leave."_

"I already said I'm not killing you. That extends to leaving you here to starve. I won't do it, Parvis."

He closed his eyes. The image of Martyn's face swam up in the darkness, pale and waxen and dead. Parvis opened his eyes again.

"Then make me stop _remembering,"_ he said thickly. "Make me _forget."_

"I can't do that, either, Parvis." He paused. "Yet, anyway."

"Then what fucking good _are_ you?"

"I can make it stop hurting," he offered gently.

"For how long?"

"For as long as you stay with me."

"Great, so I can just never leave your side again."

"At first," Rythian admitted. "I'm getting better. Once we upgrade the altar again, I should be able to make it work all the time, as long as you don't stray too far."

"It's always about the fucking magic with you, isn't it?"

"No," Rythian said, "sometimes it's about you."

Parvis was struck by a sudden and desperate _need_ for that simplicity; a physical ache in his chest to be as thoroughly unconcerned with trifling things like _guilt_ and _compassion_ as Rythian was.

To be a monster, he thought, was far preferable to simply being monstrous.

"Do it," he said.

And the screams rang into silence, and the pale visage faded from the forefront of his mind, and the sickness in his belly subsided.

"I'm going to get you some water," Rythian told him, brushing the hair off his forehead. Parvis's eyes drifted closed.

"Water sounds nice," he said.

"It's going to be all right, Parvis," Rythian said.

"'Kay," he said. Rythian kissed him on the cheek and stood.

Parvis was asleep before he got back.

* * *

 

"How come you didn't just get glowstone when you were in here getting all the potion stuff?" Parvis asked, picking his way around a patch of burning ground. His armor gleamed blood-red in the hellish light.

"I didn't know I'd need it, at the time," Rythian said, standing on his tip-toes and craning his neck at something in the far distance. He pointed. "I think there's some over there, under that overhang. See it?"

Parvis mimicked his posture, squinting.

"Er, yeah, could be. Could just be more fucking lava, though."

Rythian cracked a smile. "Always a possibility. Worth investigating, though!"

Something in the advanced stages of decay sidled up to Parvis and snuffled at his hair. He ducked away from it and scurried over to Rythian, putting him between the abomination and himself.

"I really _hate_ those things," Parvis remarked, while the thing in question blinked at him with piggy eyes.

"Oh, they're harmless," Rythian said. "We should see if we can get it to follow us back, though. The altar's always thirsty after an upgrade."

"Can't you just kill it here? We've got the special sword."

"I could," Rythian allowed, "but they _do_ have a shared consciousness, and I'd rather save the wholesale slaughter for after the upgrade."

"Oh," said Parvis. "Yeah, fair enough."

Something tickled the back of his head, like a mouse trying to scratch through a wall. He shook himself, and the feeling quieted.

Rythian looked over at him, his face the very picture of concern.

"All right?" he asked, searching Parvis's face.

"Yeah. Yeah! I'm fine. Just don't really like it here, it's too hot."

"It is, at that," Rythian agreed. "We'll hurry."

They moved off across the burning landscape, Parvis trailing at Rythian's elbow while the denizens of the Nether whistled and hissed to each other, watching the pair with greedy eyes.

"So how come you made a new portal?" Parvis asked, as they picked their way down a steep and ragged hillside. "You must've had one before. For all the potion shit."

"Oh, I did, but it was a long way away and a long time ago—I've been growing my own nether-wart for years, it just needs the right soil—and it was simpler to just make a new one."

"Was it back with Zoey?" Parvis asked.

Rythian's foot slipped, and with a sharp curse he went sliding down the hill amongst a cascade of jagged red pebbles.

Something venomous and horrible rose up at the back of Parvis's head, screaming _KILL HIM_ over and over again. Parvis dug his fingers into the rock and clung on, as thought caught in an earthquake only he could feel.

There was a clatter of rock on rock, and another curse from Rythian. The voice at the back of Parvis's head went quiet, as though someone had pressed a pillow over its face and was holding it there. Parvis regained the ability to breathe.

"All right, Parvis?" Rythian called up from below.

"Y-yeah," he stammered. "I'm . . . yeah." He risked a look down the hill. Rythian was picking himself up, brushing dust off his clothes. "Are—are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Rythian sighed. "The worst casualty is my shirt. These rocks are _hell_ on wool."

Parvis managed a laugh. He picked his way down the rest of the slope with exaggerated care. His heart rate only started to drop again when he was on the ground, standing next to Rythian. Rythian touched him lightly on the arm, looking him over.

"Are you _sure_ you're all right?" he asked.

Parvis swallowed. He took Rythian's hand and squeezed it. The contact soothed the last of his nerves.

"I'm sure," he said.

Rythian smiled and kissed his knuckles.

"Good," he said. "Now. Let's go get that glowstone and go home, hm? Then it's just finishing up the runes, and I can have my nights back!"

Parvis blushed. He kept his hand in Rythian's as they moved off.

"You don't _have_ to stay in bed with me, you know," he pointed out. "You could just work in the same room while I sleep."

"No, impossible," Rythian said. "How could I be sure your dreams are sweet if I'm not with you?"

"How'll you be able to afterwards?" Parvis asked.

"Trade secrets," Rythian said, and winked over his shoulder at Parvis.

"You don't actually know how it works, do you."

"Of course I know how it works, Parvis. Maybe I just like holding you, had you ever considered that?"

"What?" Parvis cried, feigning astonishment. "You _like_ me?"

Rythian laughed. "No, no, of course not. You know me, I don't _like_ people."

Parvis had just taken a breath to reply when Rythian twirled around and kissed him.

"But I _love_ you," he said softly.

Parvis was too overwhelmed to formulate a reply, so he just kissed Rythian again.

This seemed acceptable to both of them.

* * *

 

He was woken in the night by a hand over his mouth. His eyes snapped open, his body going rigid with panic.

Above him, Strife's face was grim in the blue light of his disassembler.

"Get up," he instructed, his voice scarcely a whisper. "And don't make noise."

An old horror came boiling up from somewhere dark and secret, flooding through Parvis and turning his blood to poison. He started shaking, whimpering, tears springing to his eyes.

Strife took his hand off Parvis's mouth in favor of hauling him up by the shoulder. Parvis was dead weight, too overwhelmed to cooperate or resist.

"No," he moaned, his words mushy and slurred. "No, no, not you, _not you,_ oh God, no—"

 _"Parvis,"_ Strife hissed, shaking him. "Get _up._ We don't want to be here when the crap hits the fan, hey?"

"Please, no," Parvis begged. He clung to Strife's vest, distraught. "Please, no, not again, not _you,_ I can't, I can't—"

Strife slapped his hands away and grabbed him by the arm. He hauled him to his feet, and then to the door.

"Y'know what, I don't have time for this. You can have your meltdown when we're back safe at the compound."

From the main room, there was a sudden, loud _thump,_ followed by the distinctive sounds of someone struggling furiously. Parvis's knees went out from under him.

 _"No,_ no, no, please, I can't—"

"For the love of _God,"_ Strife grumbled. He got an arm around Parvis's waist and half picked him up, then kicked the door open.

Rythian was on the floor, clawing at a golden rope that was cinched tight around his neck, his feet kicking frantically. Standing over him, holding the other end of the golden rope, huge and luminous and unconcerned, was Kirin.

 _"No!"_ Parvis screamed. He shoved Strife away from him and sprinted to Rythian's side, dropping to his knees and scrambling to get his fingers under the rope, to pull it off, to at least allow him to breathe.

Distant screaming rang in his ears. His skin was already starting to crawl.

"Stop it, _stop it!"_ he cried, frantic.

There was a pause, and then the rope slackened. Rythian gasped in a breath and went limp, his eyes wide and glazed. Parvis grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

 _"You promised,"_ he snarled. He could see another face, overlaid on Rythian's, slack and pale and dead—

Rythian put a hand on Parvis's wrist and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and sighed it out again, and the distant screaming faded, the second face sank back. Parvis's skin stopped crawling. He bowed his head and gathered Rythian to his chest. Rythian curled against him.

"I think you might've left a couple of things out, Strife," Kirin said mildly.

"He's literally doing it _right now,"_ Strife retorted. "That's what it looks like!"

"He wasn't when I had him in the lasso," Kirin pointed out. "That was all Parvis."

"Well, then Parvis is an _idiot!"_ Strife said. "Parv, get away from him. Come on, I'm taking you home before this gets any _worse."_

Panic swelled up again in Parvis's chest. He tightened his grip on Rythian.

"No," he said. "Just—just go. Just go, okay? It's fine, everything's fine—"

 _"Ooohhh,"_ said Kirin. This close, Parvis could feel the power radiating off him, a subtle tingle against the skin that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "Strife, you'd better take him. I'll clean up here."

 _"No!"_ Parvis cried.

"It's okay," Kirin told him, patting his head. "I speak victim. Go stand with Strife, now, okay, Parvis? I'll take care of Rythian."

"You can't hurt him," Parvis snapped, glaring up at him. Kirin folded his arms. The blue-green glow of his horns illuminated his face. His expression was kindly.

"Well, hopefully I won't have to."

"Hey, no," Strife butted in. "That wasn't our deal."

"Strife," Kirin sighed, throwing him a long-suffering look. "I said I'd help you rescue Parvis. Culling was never part of the deal."

"I don't need rescuing!" Parvis said. He was shaking all over.

Rythian's hand uncurled from his shirt, and he put his palm against Parvis's chest, applying gentle pressure.

"It's all right, Parvis," he said softly.

"It is _not!"_ Parvis snapped. "You promised!"

"Oh, _Parvis,"_ Rythian sighed. He extracted himself from Parvis's arms, sitting up and shaking his head. "I'm afraid it's not up to me anymore."

"Yes it _is,"_ Parvis insisted. He grabbed Rythian's arm and clung on. "Yes, it _is,_ I don't want to go!"

"I know, Parvis," Rythian said. He reached up a hand and touched Parvis's cheek. He was smiling, and there were tears in his eyes. "I know, and I'm sorry."

"You _promised!"_ he repeated, shaking him.

Rythian lowered his eyes and let his hand rest on Parvis's shoulder.

Strife snatched the back of Parvis's shirt and dragged him away from Rythian. Parvis clung on as long as he could, then turned to dead weight again when Strife finally pried him off. He allowed himself to be manhandled to the door. He kept his eyes on Rythian.

Kirin squatted down next to Rythian, looking him over.

"I hear you do tricks," he said.

Rythian smiled at him, wanly. "Can we set up a safeword first?"

Kirin laughed. "Good one! No, but seriously. _Mind control,_ Rythian? Really?"

"I wouldn't call it that," Rythian said.

"That's what Strife called it. Well, you know, in amongst all the expletives and slanders on your pedigree."

Rythian looked at Strife. Parvis felt him go rigid.

"I'm sure," Rythian said, and lowered his eyes again.

"So what would _you_ call it?" Kirin asked.

Rythian shrugged. "I don't call it anything."

"It's more of a demonstration, huh?"

"Generally."

"Okay," Kirin said. "I'm curious. Go on and give me your best shot."

Parvis's heart leapt into his throat. Strife's hand was painfully tight on his arm. Rythian met Kirin's gaze and held it for a good three seconds.

Rythian looked away and shook his head. He looked like he was in pain.

"No," he said. "I know when I'm beaten. But it was a _good_ game. A good game, Kirin."

"I'm impressed. Most power-hungry megalomaniacs don't know when to quit."

"Is that . . . what I am?" Rythian asked, staring down at his hands. The light from his eyes flickered as he blinked away tears.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Strife muttered to himself.

"Yeah, I'd say you were well in megalomaniac territory." Kirin said. He clapped Rythian on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll get you fixed up."

Suddenly, Rythian burst into tears and threw himself upon Kirin, shaking like a leaf. Kirin patted him on the back, mumbling little _there, theres_ and making uncomfortable faces.

 _"Un-_ believeable," Strife grumbled, and dragged Parvis away.

* * *

 

The walk to Strife's compound took hours, and Parvis felt worse and worse with every step. By the time they finally arrived at the brightly lit monolith, he couldn't see straight, and his knees had turned to jelly. Strife had to take him by the arm again to actually get him through the teleporter and inside, and Parvis sat down on the first piece of furniture he saw, which happened to be a squat little chest. After two attempts to get him to stand up, Strife gave up and left him there.

Time passed, he couldn't be sure how much. The facility hummed and beeped around him, alien and clinical. Strife came back and foisted some kind of sandwich and a mug of hot coffee on him. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms.

"All right, so," he said, his patience clearly strained. "You can stay here as long as you want. There's a guest bedroom out by the greenhouse you can stay in. The kitchen's accessible by the teleporter hub—it's labeled—and you can help yourself to whatever you want. Don't touch anything that looks scientific, don't go near the animals—actually, just don't leave the greenhouse platform. If you feel like helping out, you can work on the garden or clean. Any blood magic stuff I find, I break. You start killing my animals or doing— _weird stuff,_ and I'm throwing you out. Got it?"

Parvis stared down at the food in his hands. The coffee was about to slosh over the rim of the mug because he was shaking so hard.

Strife sighed. The coffee and sandwich were taken from Parvis's hands. Strife crouched down in front of him, looking up into his eyes.

"Hey," he said, in a much gentler voice. "It's over, Parv. You're gonna be okay."

Parvis broke down, sobbing into his hands. Strife took him to the guest room out by the greenhouse and put him to bed. Parvis kept right on crying, clutching at Strife's sleeve and begging him not to leave—the screams were starting to ring in his ears again, his skin was starting to crawl, he couldn't be left alone, not like this.

Strife, firm but gentle, refused to stay. He left Parvis sitting on the bed, sobbing and shaking.

He came back three minutes later and pushed a large stuffed rabbit into Parvis's arms. Parvis looked up at him, speechless.

Strife was staring off at the far corner of the room. He folded his arms and shrugged.

"His name's Benny," he mumbled. "Just . . . give him back before you leave."

Parvis was too choked up to say anything. Strife shrugged again, muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and left.

After only a moment's hesitation, Parvis clutched the rabbit to his chest, buried his face in it, and cried.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Parvis stayed in bed the next day. He woke just after dawn, but couldn't find the courage to get up and face the world alone; he saw no point. He would be just as miserable out there as in here, and here at least it was warm and Strife might forget about him.

He had no such luck. Around midafternoon, Strife turned up, knocking on his door and asking if he was still alive.

"I wish I wasn't," Parvis said.

"Whoop-de-doo, Parvis. I already made you dinner, so you'd better get out here and eat it."

Parvis frowned. "It's barely four o'clock," he pointed out.

"Yeah, well, and you didn't eat breakfast _or_ lunch, so now it's dinner time. Don't make me come in there and drag you out."

"I'm not _hungry,"_ he whined, curling up smaller.

The door opened, Strife came in. He stood over Parvis with his arms folded.

"Parvis," he warned. "Last chance before I start dragging."

"Why do _you_ care, anyway? Just leave me alone."

"It's one of life's great friggin' mysteries, Parvis. _Up."_

Parvis made no move to get out of bed, and so Strife grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet, rolling his eyes. Parvis gave up fighting and let himself be dragged, across the short space to the greenhouse, which was filled with golden light and the hum of machinery. It smelled of good soil and growing things. Strife set him down at an out-of-place oak table.

"Now _stay_ there," he said. "I'll be right back. Try not to . . . break anything, I don't know."

He strode off, out of the greenhouse and across the verdant lawns outside. Parvis looked down at his hands. He'd stopped having to do chores ages ago, and all his callouses had gone, his skin reverted to its natural and palest state. Blue veins meandered along his wrists, close under the skin.

The shaking started almost immediately after Strife had gone, a persistent tremor radiating from the core of him. In the squeal and whirr of the machines, he fancied he could hear echoes of agonized screams. There were faces in the knots of the table that he recognized. He dared not squeeze his eyes shut—he knew what waited for him in the darkness behind his eyelids.

He curled in on himself, trying to drive back the nausea.

"It's over," he whispered to himself, resting his forehead on the table. This close, the wood grain contained no phantom faces. Parvis tried not to blink, even as tears gathered in his eyes.

"It's _over,"_ he insisted, digging his fingernails into his arms, struggling to be heard over the wailing of the machines.

The door squeaked on its hinges when Strife opened it, and Parvis heard the little exasperated _oh, crap,_ before the hurried clicking of his shoes on paving stones.

"Hey," Strife said, sliding into the chair on the other side of the table. "Jeez, I leave you alone for five minutes, and this is what I come back to?"

"I'm s-sorry," he managed. His teeth were chattering.

"What—no, no no, don't be sorry, you don't—I'm not—" Strife broke off in a low growl. "What did I get myself into?" he muttered under his breath.

Parvis whimpered. His skin was starting to crawl, recalling the feeling of blood spattering against it.

"Okay, hey, look, come on, Parvis, don't do that. Do you—do you want the rabbit? I can go get the rabbit."

"I _killed_ him," he whispered. His stomach lurched, and he pulled his feet up into his chair, in the vain hope that if he could curl up small enough, he would just disappear.

The machines whirred and screamed, and Strife drew a slow, deep breath.

"Christ," he said.

Parvis shook his head. "I d-didn't _want_ to, I—I _had_ to, he was—pulling pieces of him out—"

"Oh, God," Strife said.

"It was—I-I-I _had_ to, Strife, I _had_ to, he was—he was—and I can still _hear_ him, I can still hear him _screaming,_ I _had_ to do it—"

He started scratching at his arms, because the crawling sensation was unbearable, because the pain was less than he deserved.

"Parvis, don't do that," Strife warned. Parvis paid him no mind.

"There was blood _everywhere,"_ he went on, in hushed tones. "It went _everywhere,_ all over me, I—I watched him die, I _killed him,_ Strife, I _killed_ Martyn—"

"Parvis, listen to me, _stop it,_ you're hurting yourself."

 _"Good!_ I deserve it!"

Strife's chair squealed against the floor, and then he grabbed both of Parvis's wrists and yanked his hands away from his arms. Parvis folded over, sobbing.

Strife sighed. "I am _not_ equipped to deal with this," he muttered. "Look, Parvis, I'm . . . I'm just gonna go get the rabbit. Don't—hurt yourself anymore while I'm gone, it'll be less than a minute."

He started to go, and Parvis grabbed onto his wrists like a drowning man clawing at driftwood.

 _"Don't leave,"_ he begged, panic swarming in his chest. "Don't _leave_ me here!"

Strife yanked his arms out of Parvis's grasp with considerable force. Parvis shrank back into himself, weak and smarting, sobs racking his body.

"I will be," Strife said, through gritted teeth, _"right back."_

His shoes clicked on tile, and he was gone.

True to his word, though, he was back in less than a minute, and foisted the giant stuffed rabbit upon Parvis, who grappled onto it with all his strength.

Strife hissed in a breath through his teeth.

 _"O_ -kay, that's . . . not gonna come out, is it. Yep, okay, bloodstains on the rabbit, great, this was the best idea I've ever had."

Parvis buried his face in the soft fur. It smelled like Strife, and if he focused, he could almost pretend it _was_ Strife. Slowly, the shaking abated, the things crawling under his skin settled down again.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into the rabbit.

"It's . . . fine, Parvis," Strife said. "Just, if you could _not_ uh, y'know, scratch your own skin off, that'd be great."

"'m sorry," he repeated.

Strife sighed. The chair squealed again as he scooted it back up to the table.

"Look, I . . . I don't have a lot to do today. I can stick around until you uh . . . you've eaten your dinner."

Parvis nodded, staying firmly buried in the rabbit.

For a time, the only sound was the whirring of the machines.

"Parvis, it . . . it wasn't your fault," Strife said quietly.

He sniffled. "It was," he said.

"Okay, y'know what, if that's how you're gonna be, I'm not going to try and comfort you any more."

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Oh, for the love of _God,"_ Strife sighed.

* * *

 

The next day, the food was already on the table when Strife hauled Parvis out of bed. He also told him to bring the rabbit with him, which Parvis did without questioning him. He managed to make it all the way through the meal before having a meltdown. Eventually Strife gave up trying to reason with him and just sat quietly until Parvis calmed down of his own accord.

Another six days passed like this. Although Parvis spent most of his time in bed, he rarely slept. He'd started having nightmares, and it was easier to pick at his scabs and keep himself awake than to deal with the sharp-toothed terrors of his subconscious.

Converse to expectations, things weren't getting better. He could still hear the screams, could still see Martyn's face whenever he closed his eyes. The threat of the impending withdrawal loomed over him, ratcheting up his internal tensions another notch. There wasn't a moment of his life, conscious or otherwise, when he wasn't utterly miserable.

On the eighth day, mid-breakdown, he gave up.

"I can't do this," he said, standing suddenly, dropping the stuffed rabbit to the floor. Tears in his eyes, he started for the greenhouse door.

"Now—now _Parvis,"_ Strife said, hurrying to stand between Parvis and the door, his hands raised in front of him as though confronting a freed circus lion. "Parvis, sit down. You're not going back there. I didn't risk life and limb—and . . . indebt myself massively to Kirin—just so you could go running right back whenever things started getting tricky, hey? Sit down. We'll . . . talk about this, I guess."

"I can't _live_ like this, Strife," Parvis said, shaking. It was taking all of his restraint to not start scratching at his arms. "You don't understand. You don't _understand."_

"Okay, fine, I don't understand! What I _do_ understand, Parvis, is that I invested _way_ too much into rescuing you for you to up and _un-_ rescue yourself in a week! Sit. Down. You're not going anywhere."

"Is that all I am to you?" he demanded, sinuses prickling. "An _investment?"_

"Parvis, I'm _trying_ to be supportive, here, and it'd work a lot better if you wouldn't twist my words around, hey?"

"Why did you even come back for me?" Parvis went on, heedless. "If it was such a fucking drain on you, why not just _leave_ me there?"

"Because I thought, stupidly, that you'd be _grateful!"_ Strife snapped back. "Or was that pathetic little letter you sent out just a plot to bring in lambs for the slaughter?"

 _"Shut up!"_ Parvis screamed, because anger dulled the pain. "Shut up, you fucking _robot!_ I wish he _had_ kept you as pet! I wish he'd never let you leave!"

"If you think _that,_ you're just as _sick_ and freakish as he is," Strife spat. "I should've known the second I saw those disgusting _things_ in your mouth that you were past help. Maybe I _should_ let you leave, before you get the bright idea to slit _my_ throat, too!"

"Well _why don't you?"_ he cried, kicking over his chair. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

 _"Because I care about you!"_ Strife retorted.

Parvis reeled back like he'd been struck a physical blow. The anger evaporated, leaving him shaking and in pain.

Strife let out an exasperated growl and rubbed his face with both hands. When he came back up, he looked significantly calmer.

"I . . . I might've gotten a little heated there," he said, his voice strained. "And I'm . . . sorry. I guess. Now will you _please_ sit back down?"

Still stunned, Parvis fumbled his chair back upright and sat down. Strife watched him for a moment, then sat as well. He leaned his elbows on the table and fixed his gaze on his hands. He sighed, all gravel and dust.

"I can't stop you from leaving," Strife said. "Not . . . practically, anyway. I mean I guess I could lock you up or something, but that kinda defeats the purpose, hey? So uh . . . just—Parvis, don't."

He looked up, and his expression was written in pain.

"Don't go back. Don't go back there. Because . . . I'm not gonna come back for you again. So if you run off, that's it. I'm washing my hands of you. Because I am _not_ ending up like Martyn." He turned his gaze back to his hands. "Even if it means throwing you under the bus."

Parvis stared at him. Another pair of tears slid down his cheeks, and he couldn't swallow down the lump in his throat no matter how he tried.

"So, just . . . don't run off," Strife concluded. "Y'know, uh. Please."

"Aw," Parvis said nastily, "you really _do_ care."

"Hey," Strife snapped, glaring at him, "I'm doing my best here, okay? I didn't _have_ to come back for you. But I have _limits,_ Parvis, and this is one of them."

Parvis sniffled, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

"How much d'you owe Kirin for me?" he asked, after a pause.

Strife sighed again and rubbed his temple.

"A couple of buildings and some guns. And I was lucky to get that. He probably just agreed because he was _bored."_

"Nice to know how much I'm worth," Parvis mumbled.

"No, Parvis, that's how much a day of Kirin's _time_ is worth," Strife said sharply. "I don't know if you noticed, but his job was mostly _don't let Rythian kill anybody._ I did all the rescuing myself."

"Oh, good, here I was thinking you'd paid too much for me."

"Oh for God's _sake,_ Parvis, stop talking like I _bought_ you."

"Why? Seems like money's the only thing you understand."

"Jesus, I'd forgotten how friggin' _annoying_ you are," Strife said, through gritted teeth. "No, Parvis, if I'd _bought_ you, I would've made sure to get a _muzzle,_ too. What I _did_ was rent a really big gun so Rythian wouldn't start messing with my head again when I came to get you. That's _it."_

"But you _basically_ bought me," Parvis said.

"No! Stop saying that! You can't _buy people,_ Parvis! And even if you could, I _wouldn't!_ Or at least I wouldn't buy _you,_ for God's sake."

"Thanks," Parvis said dryly.

"You're welcome," Strife shot. "People like you aren't made to be _owned,_ Parvis, and I wouldn't do that to you even if I could."

Parvis buttoned his lip and swallowed.

"I'm not going to get better," he said quietly. "I know you want me to, but I'm not."

Strife sighed. "Pick up the rabbit, Parvis," he said.

"You can't just solve all your problems with that stupid fucking rabbit," Parvis pointed out.

Strife jabbed a finger at him. "Hey! Benny the Bunny has done _nothing_ wrong. He's a model citizen and you have _no_ right to criticize."

Parvis stared.

"Its name is _Benny the Bunny?"_ he asked at last, his voice thin.

"Shut up," said Strife.

"Are there _more_ of them? Have you got, like, a whole _town?"_

"Shut up, Parvis," Strife repeated. He was quickly turning pink.

"Oh my God, you have," he said, awed.

"Look, do you want the damn rabbit or not?"

Parvis looked down at his trembling hands, and the momentary light-heartedness slid away, leaving him in darkness again.

"Yeah," he said, "sure."

There was a moment of silence. Strife sighed again.

"For _fuck's_ sake," he hissed to himself, and got up, and picked the rabbit up off the floor and shoved it into Parvis's arms.

Parvis cradled it to him, wishing it still smelled like Strife.

* * *

 

 _I can just wrap it_ _ around  _ _and_ _ around  _ _and_ _ around  _ _—_

Parvis woke up gasping, drenched in a cold sweat, echoes of Rythian's voice still scratching at his consciousness like rats' claws. He lay still, staring at the ceiling and trying to catch his breath. In the darkness, he couldn't push away the memory of Martyn's face, the last desperate twitches of his eyes as he searched for a way out, the way the blood had spattered his pale skin.

He sat up, pressing his fists into his eyes, focusing on the swarming, multicolored sparks that blossomed up. It was the middle of the night, and the compound was dark and quiet. Another three days had passed since he'd tried to leave. There had been no change.

Parvis gathered Benny the Bunny to his chest and got out of bed. He put on his shoes, his coat, his bandana. Moving as though in a dream, he went out onto the wide lawn, drifting from floodlight to floodlight, the stars twinkling like glitter overhead, his breath misting out in front of him.

He went up the stairs to the main building. The huge door clanged and clattered when he went through, and he had a momentary panic that it would wake Strife up—but then the hum and whirr of the building closed over his head, and he decided that anyone who could sleep through _that_ wouldn't be bothered by a door.

He rooted through some chests until he found paper and a pen. He bore down on the wall. His hand shook, and he tore the paper twice, even though the note was short. He somehow managed to not cry on it.

He left the rabbit sitting in the transportation hub, leaned against one of the teleporters, his note propped up between its legs.

All it said was: _I'm sorry._

* * *

 

He'd expected carnage. He'd expected a grave with Rythian's name on it. He'd expected a smoking crater.

He'd expected just about anything except finding Rythian sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling in a little notebook.

"He's gone," Rythian said dully, as Parvis came inside with his heart in his throat. "Living with Strife in that hideous science-brick on the coast. You can check if you don't believe me."

"I don't," Parvis croaked.

Rythian went still, freezing in time and space. Then his hand started shaking, and he set down his pen.

"Parvis?" he whispered, not looking up.

"I thought you'd be dead," Parvis said.

"Sorry to disappoint," Rythian said, strained.

Silence fell. Parvis stared at Rythian, and Rythian stared at his little notebook.

"Where's Kirin gone?" Parvis asked at last.

"Other projects," Rythian said. "Apparently I'm . . . hah, _reformed enough._ That's how he put it."

"Are you?"

The corner of Rythian's mouth twitched.

"I think that depends on who you ask."

"I'm asking you."

Rythian thought.

"Yes," he said.

Parvis hurried over to him, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him around to meet his eyes.

 _"Fix me,"_ he begged.

In one fluid motion, Rythian rose from his chair, wrapped his arms around Parvis, and kissed him so fervently that Parvis had to take a step back to keep his balance. Warmth and well-being flooded through him, and he dissolved in Rythian's arms, clinging to his shirt, crying.

Rythian broke off and cradled Parvis to him, burying his face in Parvis's hair.

"I missed you," he whispered. "Oh, God, I missed you."

 _You fucking_ _ moron,  _ Inner Parvis lamented. _You absolute_ _ idiot.  _

"I missed you, too," Parvis said, muffled by Rythian's shoulder.

"I'm here," Rythian promised. "Now and forever, Parvis. No one is going to take you from me again. Never again."

Parvis put his arms around Rythian and squeezed. Rythian kissed the top of his head.

"I love you," Parvis said, and hiccuped on something halfway between a laugh and a sob. "I love you."

"Oh, _Parvis,"_ Rythian sighed. "I love you, too."

They held each other like they would never have to let go, and for the first time since Strife had turned up in his room, Parvis was happy.

 


	15. Chapter 15

"So he just . . . left?" Parvis asked, pouring out two cups of coffee.

 _"Just?"_ Rythian asked, and laughed. There was an edge to it that made Parvis's spine prickle. "No, Parvis, Kirin didn't _just_ leave. There was no _just_ about it."

Parvis set one of the cups in front of Rythian, trying to stay further away from him than the length of his own arm.

"I um . . . I take it things didn't go well?" he guessed.

Rythian laughed again. Parvis's hindbrain tried to scurry out of his skull.

"Oh, he was _very_ kind to me, Parvis. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to properly express my gratitude."

"Um," said Parvis, slipping into his own chair, acutely aware of how short the distance between them was.

"Someday, Parvis," Rythian said dreamily, curling splinters from the table with his fingertips, "someday, when I'm a god, I'm going to scramble that feckless cow's brain like an egg—like an _egg,_ Parvis—and he's going to spend the rest of eternity licking the shit off my boots."

Parvis stared. Rythian looked up at him and grinned brightly.

"So yes! Overall it went quite well."

"Oh," Parvis said faintly, and gulped. "Er . . . good."

Rythian tugged his fingers out of the table and brushed off the splinters, then went back to his coffee.

"Fortunately, I didn't lose _too_ much time while you were gone," he said, the manic edge gone from his voice. "I was allowed— _ahahah,_ hah, sorry— _allowed_ to continue working, provided no one human was hurt. I'm nearly ready to upgrade again, and then we can finally start getting things _done._ The first ritual is almost done, it's just a few more runes, the upgrade, and filling the altar one last time."

"Um," Parvis said delicately, "what, exactly, does this ritual . . . _do?"_

"Extracts life essence," Rythian said. "Why?"

"So it _kills_ things?"

Rythian shook his head, smiling.

"Oh, no, Parvis. That would be wasteful. No, this takes a more . . . _measured_ approach, allowing time for recovery and regeneration—"

"It _tortures_ things?" he cried.

Rythian rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't say that," he said.

"What _would_ you say, then?"

"I'd say what I just said, Parvis, which is that it extracts life essence a little bit at a time."

Parvis looked down into his coffee and chewed his lip—carefully, so as not to cut it on his teeth.

"But will it hurt?" he asked.

"They're only pigs, Parvis," Rythian said. "Now. How many runes do you think you could carve in a day?"

* * *

 

It was scarcely three days later that they upgraded the altar again. Rythian had been, apparently, extremely productive while he'd been gone, enlarging the altar room in every dimension so that the altar itself now stood upon a tiered pyramid, with large pillars on every corner of each level. The stairs now turned a sharp corner a few yards from the floor, cut into the wall to make room for the expansion.

"I managed to get one upgrade in already, while you were gone," Rythian mentioned, checking over the wide ring of runes on the second level down. All but one of the runes were active, red and glowing faintly. "Since we already had the glowstone, I saw no reason not to."

He frowned. "How come I didn't feel it?" he asked. He was sitting at the corner of the stairs, watching Rythian work.

"Feel it?" Rythian asked. "Parvis, you were sixteen miles away. You wouldn't feel it _that_ far away unless it was at _least_ tier five." He acquired a far-away expression and sighed. "That's what got me into trouble last time. People started noticing."

"But I'm like, hooked into it, right? That's how come I felt it the first time." He paused. "Isn't it?"

"The only person who feels the effect of the _magic_ is the person doing it," Rythian said. "One of those gloriously addictive little quirks. No, upgrading just unseats all the ambient magical energy in the area. People with higher affinities feel it more—someone like your darling Strife would probably just get a ringing in his _pretty_ little ears—"

Rythian had started digging his claws into his palm, and at that point they punctured the skin and sent little beads of blood rolling down his fingers. He shook himself, taking the edge off his smile.

"But anyway. You didn't feel the upgrade because you were too far away. You'll feel this one."

"Can I be the one to upgrade it?" Parvis asked, sitting forward. Something at the back of his head was kicking up a fuss, but he paid it no mind.

Rythian laughed. "Parvis, quite frankly, it would kill you. Granted, it wouldn't be a bad way to go—there probably isn't a better one—but personally I'd like to keep you around for at least a few more centuries."

A chill ran down Parvis's spine.

"Is that . . . the plan?" he asked.

 _"Plan?"_ Rythian said, pulling a face. "I don't have a _plan,_ Parvis. But someday I'll be a god, and I should hate to rule the world without you. I'll figure out some way of making you immortal long before it becomes an issue."

"Oh," said Parvis, blushing. "All right, then."

Rythian gave the altar room one last examination, rolling his blood orb back and forth between his hands. He nodded, then took a deep breath and sighed it out.

"All right, Parvis, I'd say we're ready. Still sitting down? Good. You might want to hang on to something." He paused, tipping his head to one side. "You're not terribly attached to that outfit, are you?"

"Uh, sort of?" Parvis guessed. "Why?"

"It probably won't be an issue," Rythian said, setting his blood orb down on the last inactive rune. "Here goes! Three, two, one—"

Parvis blacked out.

Afterwards, all he could remember was the sound of Rythian screaming.

* * *

 

He came to in bed, naked and sore and light-headed. There was a quiet scraping noise, like rock being sanded. Parvis sat up, rubbing his eyes.

He was in Rythian's room, in Rythian's bed. It was, if anything, even more meticulously neat than the last time he'd seen it. The nightstand had been swept clean of all ornaments, and every surface sparkled. The window glass was so clear, he could barely see it.

Rythian was sitting in the middle of the floor, polishing a small, black sphere. His neck was a mass of bruises and punctures, grouped into the shape of bites. Parvis ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. He could still taste blood.

"G'morning," he said, and found his voice so hoarse that he could hardly produce sound.

Rythian looked up, bright and alert.

"Good morning! I thought you were going to sleep all day. Not that you haven't earned it, of course." He winked, and turned back to his little black sphere. "And how are you feeling?"

"Good," Parvis said. He stretched. Dozens of scabs on his neck and back and shoulders pinched and tugged at his skin. He touched his neck and found the flesh tender. "Am I all marked up like you are?"

Rythian laughed. "Oh, no, Parvis, you're _much_ worse. I'd get you a potion, but I'm saving them for when we get the ritual running. They're very useful for keeping the piggies alive."

"'S fine," Parvis said. "It doesn't hurt. Have you got a mirror?"

Rythian made a face. "Not in here. I seem to recall putting one in your room, you can go find it if you like." He held up the little black sphere and blew the dust off of it, then went back to polishing.

"What're you making?" Parvis asked, loath to get out of bed.

"Oh, just a little something for myself," Rythian said. "You'll see it when it's finished."

Parvis started to get out of bed, then hesitated, embarrassed despite everything.

"Er," he said, "where've my clothes gone?"

"Clothes?" Rythian asked, then said, "Oh, right, _those_ clothes. I'm afraid those clothes are no longer with us, Parvis. I couldn't tell you _exactly_ what happened to them, but I'm certain they were no longer wearable when I got rid of them."

Parvis pouted. "Even the bandana?"

Rythian's smile instantaneously dirtied the entire room on the sheer strength of its filthy presence.

"Oh, Parvis," he purred. _"Especially_ the bandana."

Blushing from head to toe, Parvis sputtered something half-intelligible about getting dressed, trying to wrap the bedsheets around his waist. Rythian looked up at him slyly.

"Are you _sure_ you want to get dressed, Parvis? Right now?"

The blush cranked up its heat by another couple of degrees.

"Well—but, but _you're_ dressed," he pointed out, although there were parts of him that were raising no objections whatsoever.

Rythian got to his feet with a fluid grace that made Parvis's breath hitch. He took Parvis's face in his hand and smiled. Parvis lost himself in his eyes, in the soft glow and the jewel-like clarity.

"Oh," Rythian said, "I'm sure that can be fixed."

Parvis leaned in and kissed him.

Very little else got done that day.

* * *

 

The next day, Rythian vanished. There was no note, nor any indication of where he had gone. His blood orb was gone, too, and the particular knife he used for killing pigs. However, contrary to his fears, Parvis remained calm and content, having no resurgance of the unbearable thoughts that had always plagued him in Rythian's absence.

He filled the spare hours by pricking the last surviving cows with his sacrificial knife until they keeled over dead. It was a pleasant pastime that filled him up with warmth and a sense of well-being. He'd killed all four of them by noon, and only then considered that he should probably do something with the bodies, otherwise they'd start to smell. He made an attempt to drag one inside, thinking of putting it in the freezer with the slaughtered pigs, and gave up almost immediately, as it was abundantly clear that it was impossible for him to move a half-ton corpse any distance at all. He decided that Rythian would take care of it when he got back and went inside to have dinner and clean things—there wasn't much else to do, and his hands itched when they were idle for too long.

When he woke up again in the morning, Rythian was back, as though he'd never left, sipping coffee straight from the pot and polishing his little black sphere.

"Where were you, then?" Parvis asked, lighting the stove. "And d'you want breakfast?"

"Finding more pigs," Rythian said, "and no, thank you."

Parvis shrugged and went about making himself breakfast.

"So where're the pigs?" Parvis asked, sitting down with a plate of ham and an empty mug. "Pass the coffee, please."

Rythian pushed the pot over with one knuckle. Parvis poured himself a cup and pushed it back.

"Downstairs," Rythian said, "in the ritual room. I showed you the ritual room, didn't I? At the back of that hallway?"

Parvis wracked his brain. "I don't _think_ so," he said.

Rythian shrugged. "Well. There's a ritual room at the end of the hall, and it has a lot of pigs in it. I'm still a few runes short of having the ritual _running,_ so for now they're just living in there, but they don't seem to mind, so I'm not concerned."

"All right, then," Parvis said. "Anything I can do to help?"

"I'll show you the runes we need, you can help with carving," Rythian said. "And don't go down the hallway. It'd only upset you."

"Why? Because of the pigs?"

"Mm," said Rythian, and blew the dust off his little orb.

* * *

 

A week passed, for the most part uneventful. The ritual stones were completed, and Rythian started them running. He never held still after that—he was always pacing, talking, sketching, carving, or a hundred other things, and fairly _glowed._ Touching him made Parvis's skin tingle, as though there was an electric current running through him.

Parvis kept his blood orb close to hand at all times. It was always warm, and carried the energy of a thing alive. Focusing on it would bring a sharp prick on the palm, followed by a rush of buzzing energy. He concluded, after a few attempts, that this was probably what Rythian felt like _all the time,_ and the thought made him shiver with desire. He found himself sleeping less, preferring instead to work on the magic, which was more fulfilling in every way. His mind got stuck in high gear, and he found he didn't want to come down.

In the middle of one of his brief periods of rest, Rythian woke him, his eyes glowing in the darkness.

"Your present is ready," he said.

"Present?" Parvis mumbled, a slow sickness coiling around his stomach.

"Yes! Come and see." He took Parvis's hand and helped him out of bed. Parvis trailed along, groggy and discomfited.

They went to the altar room, and down the new hallway behind it. Faintly, Parvis could hear the quiet snorts and squeals of the pigs, locked away behind a thick steel door. Rythian led him past it, all the way to the end of the hallway, where a wooden door was set into the living stone.

"In there," Rythian said, indicating the door. There was a little window at eye-level, glassless. "Have a look."

Parvis stepped past him and looked in the window. His heart stopped.

There was a dingy mattress, shoved into a corner. On it was a man, naked, curled up like a child. There was a heavy iron collar around his neck, connected to a long chain that was, in turn, bolted to the wall. There were stains on the floor that were probably blood. The man's body was covered in a network of fine scars, dots and lines and planes that all looked worryingly fresh. Something had taken a chunk out of his shoulder, leaving the flesh dimpled and misshapen. His ribs pressed up against his skin as he breathed, and his fingers twitched as he slept. Strewn across the floor were the limbs and body and head of Benny the Bunny, leaking stuffing and spattered with blood.

 _"Strife?"_ Parvis said, his voice thin and strained.

Rythian's eyes glittered.

"Don't worry, I trained him," he said; then added, in a much nastier voice, "Now he does _tricks."_

Parvis gaped. Rythian put a hand on the back of his neck and smiled.

"Would you like to see?"

 _No no no no no,_ Inner Parvis said, and kept repeating the word in a low mantra, almost a prayer.

Parvis didn't answer. Rythian opened the door and ushered him inside, stood him in the corner and pecked him on the lips.

"It's very cute," Rythian assured him. "Watch!"

Parvis found his feet rooted to the spot. Rythian crossed to the little bed, knelt down, and touched Strife on the shoulder.

"Good morning, my pet," he said softly.

Strife's eyes opened. He sat up slowly, his expression vague and unfocused. He mumbled something unintelligible. Rythian sat down on the mattress next to him and patted his own legs. Strife crawled up into his lap and draped himself over Rythian. Rythian ran the tips of his claws down Strife's spine, tracing a set of shiny white scars. Strife shivered and drew closer.

Rythian made a low, pleased noise and tipped his head away from Strife. On cue, Strife put his lips to Rythian's neck and began methodically kissing him.

Rythian made eye-contact with Parvis and smiled.

"He's gotten very good," he said, tickling the back of Strife's neck, just under the heavy iron collar. "Never even bites anymore. Unless you ask him to, of course. He does _anything_ you ask him to. It's delightful, really."

Parvis found his voice, somehow managing to untangle it from the mess of emotions in his belly—one one hand, he was horrified and disgusted; but on the other, he couldn't help but think how _good_ it would feel, to be kissed like that, and by Strife, no less.

"Strife doesn't . . . like being touched," he said.

"No?" said Rythian, raising his eyebrows. "He certainly seems to be enjoying himself."

He tipped his head a little further, and Strife obligingly moved to kissing him under the jaw, his eyes closed, his fingers weakly clasping Rythian's shirt.

"But . . . but you're . . . in his head," Parvis said.

"Yes," Rythian said, "and?"

He put a hand under Strife's chin and lifted his head, then kissed him on the lips, slow and lingering. When he pulled back, he had eyes for Strife alone.

"Would you prefer I _not_ be?" he asked softly.

"No," Parvis blurted, as his stomach lurched.

"Mm," said Rythian, smiling. "That's what I thought."

He kissed Strife again, trailing a claw over his chest. He broke off abruptly, shoved Strife out of his lap, and stood up. Strife whined, grasping at Rythian's trouser leg, and Rythian kicked him.

Parvis took a step forward, a hand outstretched. Rythian looked up at him, and he halted.

"Well," Rythian said, the smile still playing over his lips. "I did _say_ I'd make a present of him. He's all yours, Parvis. Don't forget to feed him."

He started for the door. Unbalanced, Parvis stumbled after him.

"Rythian, this is wrong," he said, catching him by the sleeve.

Rythian turned, slowly. Parvis's hindbrain tried to escape his skull again.

"I don't take kindly," Rythian said, his voice a low murmur that raised the hairs on Parvis's arms, "to being humiliated. The only reason your darling Strife isn't in _pieces_ is out of my love for you, Parvis."

Parvis's breath caught in his throat, his heart stuttered in his chest.

Rythian tipped his head to the side, his eyes glittering. "Be grateful," he suggested.

"Th-thank . . . you," Parvis managed, hardly any sound passing his lips.

"Parvis," Rythian said, his voice slick with rot, "it was my _pleasure."_

Parvis uncurled his fingers, one by one, from Rythian's sleeve. He stepped back, feeling for the doorknob behind him. Rythian smiled.

"Enjoy yourself, Parvis," he said. "I'll see you in the morning. Hah, probably. I couldn't possibly hold it against you if you took your time."

He turned away, and headed off towards the altar room.

Parvis held perfectly still until he could no longer hear Rythian's footfalls, and then slipped back inside Strife's cell.

Strife looked up at him, dull-eyed and languid. Parvis wedged himself in the far corner of the room and sank to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He buried his face in his knees and hugged his shins, trying to remember how to breathe.

There was a quiet clinking noise, and then Strife touched him on the arm.

 _"Stop,"_ Parvis snarled.

"But," said Strife. He petted Parvis's arm, plucked at his sleeve.

"I said _stop,"_ he repeated, lifting his head to glare at Strife.

He shrank back, flinching as though he expected a blow. Parvis's heart broke upon the instant.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not—no, no, Strife, it's all right, I'm not going to hurt you—"

Strife bowed his head and wrapped his arms around himself, his fingers caressing the bare skin aimlessly. This close, Parvis could see the gooseflesh all over him, every hair standing on end.

"Are you . . . cold?" Parvis asked.

After a moment's thought, his brow furrowed, Strife nodded.

Parvis licked his lips, and searched the room for a better way, and finally just stretched out his legs and held out his arms.

"Come on, then," he mumbled, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Strife climbed into his lap and curled up against him, resting his head on Parvis's shoulder. Hesitantly, Parvis folded his arms around him. Strife sighed deeply and nuzzled Parvis's neck, sending sparks skittering out under his skin.

Parvis closed his eyes and bit his lip. Strife started playing with his bandana, plucking and tugging at it with curious, clumsy fingers. Every time his fingertips brushed Parvis's neck, another sparkle of pleasure lit off under his skin. His jeans were quickly becoming uncomfortably tight.

"I won't," he said, to no one. "I'm better than that."

One of Strife's fingers touched something ticklish, and Parvis turned his head involuntarily. Before Parvis could stop him, Strife was kissing his neck, and fireworks went off behind Parvis's eyes. He sucked in a breath, his arms tightening around Strife's bare shoulders. Lost in the sensation, Parvis let his head fall back against the wall, and Strife's kisses trailed up his throat, traced the underside of his jaw. His hand slid down to Parvis's chest, his palm pressed over his pounding heart.

 _"Fuck,"_ Parvis breathed, struggling to rope his scattered thoughts back together.

Strife shifted in his lap, getting a leg on either side of him. Parvis whimpered, and took Strife's face in his hands, and pressed their lips together.

He kissed _exactly_ like Rythian.

Parvis went cold. He put his hands on Strife's chest and pushed him back, gently. Strife sat back, perfectly compliant. Parvis could not help but notice that he was half-hard. He closed his eyes and took deep, steadying breaths.

"No," he said.

Strife took some time to process this.

"No?" he asked at last, as though it was a foreign word, strange to his tongue. He reached out and plucked at Parvis's shirt. Parvis took his wrists and stilled his idle fingers.

"No, Strife," he said, and shook his head. "Not this. Not with me."

"No?" Strife said again, the concept apparently incomprehensible to him.

Parvis squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath to keep from sobbing. Wordlessly, he embraced Strife again, pulling him close to his chest, one hand firmly on the back of his head to keep his lips away from Parvis's neck. Strife sighed and wiggled around into a more comfortable position.

Parvis buried his face in Strife's hair. He smelled mostly of sweat and dust and blood.

"I'm so sorry," Parvis whispered, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "I'm so fucking _sorry,_ Strife."

Strife plucked and petted his shirt, tucked his feet under Parvis's knee and sighed again.

Parvis wept for him, because he could think of nothing else to do.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Parvis spent the night with Strife, holding him in his lap until he fell asleep. He tried to leave once, to set Strife in his bed so he could go upstairs and bring him a blanket and a pillow, but Strife had woken up and caught a handful of his trousers and made such a pathetic little noise that Parvis couldn't bring himself to leave. Instead, he lay down with him, cradling him close to keep out the cold. Strife fell right back to sleep, his breath hot on Parvis's chest. Parvis slept fitfully, if at all, and had to decide arbitrarily when he thought dawn had come.

He untangled himself from Strife as gently as he could, praying that he wouldn't wake him. Strife woke up anyway, grabbing Parvis's shirt before his eyes were even open.

"I've got to _go,_ Strife," Parvis said, prying Strife's grip open. "I've got to go, now. I'll be right back with breakfast—d'you want breakfast?"

Strife only whimpered and grabbed onto Parvis's shirt again, tugging on him. Parvis took his wrists and disentangled himself again.

"No, Strife," he said. "But I'll be right back. Okay? With food. Are you hungry?"

There was only fear and confusion on Strife's face as he tried, once again, to pull Parvis back to him. This time, when Parvis pulled his hands off, he was more forceful.

 _"Stop_ it," he scolded. "I'll be _right back._ Just . . . wait here, all right?"

 _As if he could do anything else,_ Inner Parvis remarked dryly.

Strife whimpered again, and, since clinging to Parvis's shirt had not so far been successful, opted to grab his wrist instead. He kissed Parvis's knuckles with an air of desperation.

"Strife, _stop!"_ Parvis snarled, yanking his hand away; it was too tempting, too _good._

Strife flinched and shrank back against the wall, hiding behind his raised hands. The motion ground a heel down on Parvis's already broken heart. He dropped to his knees, holding out his hands to Strife but reluctant to touch him.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I'm not angry. It's all right, I promise, I'm sorry."

Strife's breath was coming short and panicked, pressing his ribs out against his skin. The network of fine scars lay like pale mesh over his skin. Parvis bowed his head and put a hand over his mouth, unable to look anymore.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and got to his feet. Strife didn't try to stop him, and Parvis walked out with his gaze lowered, sick with shame.

Rythian was in the altar room, carving more runes. He didn't look up as Parvis came through, absorbed in his work. Parvis didn't look at him, either.

His hands shook as he fixed breakfast for himself, Strife, and (although Inner Parvis gave him hell for it) Rythian. He returned to the altar room, balancing one plate on his arm, and set Rythian's breakfast down next to him.

"Made you breakfast," he mentioned, his lips numb.

"Is there coffee?" Rythian asked, his hands never pausing in their work.

"Er," said Parvis, "no."

Rythian made a disgusted noise. After an awkward moment of hesitation, Parvis considered himself dismissed and left.

It was Inner Parvis's opinion that Rythian could make his _own_ damn coffee, and the rest of Parvis was inclined to agree.

He knocked on Strife's door, then entered when there was no response. Strife was still curled up on his mattress, hugging his shins, resting his head on his knees. The heavy chain clinked as he rocked back and forth.

"Um," said Parvis, "I've made you breakfast, if you want it."

Strife did not respond. Parvis came in and shut the door behind him.

Some air current in the room must have changed, because Strife's head snapped up, his nostrils twitching. He unfolded, coming up into a crouch, eyes fixed on the plate in Parvis's hand.

"I'm . . . gonna take that as a yes," Parvis said. He edged forward and set the plate on the floor in the center of the room.

Strife continued to stare at the food, occasionally flicking a glance up at Parvis. He was vibrating.

After a moment, Parvis got the message and backed away. Strife scuttled over to the plate and fell upon it with feral abandon. Parvis wedged himself into the far corner and set his own plate on his knees. He found he had no appetite. Strife, on the other hand, wolfed down the whole plate in less than a minute and moved on to making eyes at Parvis's untouched food.

"Have it," Parvis said, holding out the plate to him. With a rattling of chain, Strife sidled over and snatched it from his hands. Parvis tried to steady the plate, to keep it from spilling everywhere, and Strife snarled at him like a wild thing and struck his hand. Eggs and ham went flying, and while Parvis nursed his stinging wrist, Strife foraged for all the scattered bits, placid once again.

When all the clumps of egg and ham had been found and duly eaten, Strife wriggled into Parvis's lap, curled up, and sighed contentedly. Carefully, so as not to provoke any unexpected reaction, Parvis wrapped his arms around him. He had to resist the temptation to kiss the top of his head.

"I hope you're still in there," Parvis said quietly. "I hope you're still in there, somewhere, and that you can hear me. That you can understand me."

He paused. "I mean, maybe. Maybe it'd be better if you were . . . gone. If there wasn't any waking up. 'Cause, I dunno, is it a nightmare if you don't understand it? If you just go on dreaming? I mean, would you—would you even _want_ to wake up? Would you even _want_ to come back from this?"

Strife had stilled; whether it was because he was listening or because he was sleeping, it was impossible for Parvis to tell. He forged on, since he was speaking mostly to himself anyway.

"But if you _are_ in there and you _can_ hear me—I'm going to get you out, Strife. I'm going to get you out of here, and I don't care what it takes. I won't leave you here. I promise you, I won't leave you here."

 _I'd kill you before I left you here with_ _ him,  _ he thought, _for pity's sake._

But he did not say it aloud, just in case Strife _could_ understand.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, Strife," he said, and his voice was choked with emotion. "I'm sorry I got you into this. I'm sorry I brought you here. I'm sorry I . . . I _did_ this to you. And I want to fix it, but maybe it can't be fixed, and maybe you don't want it to be, and maybe you don't even want to wake up and maybe you're not even _in_ there, anymore, and I'm just talking to a—a—a _pig,_ just another of Rythian's fucking _pigs—"_

"No," said Strife.

Parvis's heart skipped a beat. His hands tightened on Strife's sides.

"What?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe his ears.

Strife said nothing.

Parvis grabbed him by the shoulders and held him out at arm's length, desperately searching his face.

 _"What_ did you say?" he demanded, breathless, his pulse pounding in his head.

Strife stared at him, ox-eyed and blank.

"Strife," Parvis begged, "please."

He made a little noise in the back of his throat, and plucked at Parvis's shirt, and turned his head and kissed Parvis's knuckles.

Parvis put him aside and staggered out before he made things any worse.

* * *

 

Back in the altar room, Rythian's breakfast was still sitting untouched at his elbow, lightly dusted with chips of stone. Rythian himself was still carving away, whittling down a stack of blank slates and building up five stacks of carved ones, each stack bearing a different rune. Now that Parvis was looking at him, he could see that his hands were shaking.

"How's Strife?" he inquired as Parvis entered, although there was a manic edge to the question. He spoke too quickly, and there was a tremor in his voice.

"He's fucking miserable," Parvis shot, before he could stop himself.

"Don't be stupid, Parvis, Strife isn't capable of misery anymore," Rythian said. The chisel slipped off the stone, and Rythian cursed under his breath.

"He's chained up like a _dog,"_ Parvis went on.

"Yes, because he's a fucking _pet,"_ Rythian snapped. "Are you going to help with these runes, or did you just come here to waste my time?"

"If you want me to cooperate with your stupid evil plans, why don't you just _make_ me?"

He realized a second too late that it was the wrong thing to say.

The wave of mental energy crashed over him, sending him tumbling. His knees gave out, and he distantly felt his body crumple. An oceanic roaring filled his ears. Rythian's voice floated atop it, quiet but perfectly clear.

"Runes of superior capacity, Parvis," he said. "Until your fingers bleed. And, in fact, after that, too. If you're very good, I might even let you take Strife his dinner."

 _Why does he keep saying that, 'if you're very good?'_ Inner Parvis wondered, while the rest of Parvis pulled down a slate off the pile and retrieved a hammer and chisel from the little chest of tools in the corner. _Have I got the option to_ _ not  _ _be very good?_

This rolled and tumbled and abraded in the shallow, sandy waves of Parvis's mind, while rune after rune passed under his hands and the magic started to buzz again in his veins.

 _I can fight him,_ Inner Parvis decided at last.

And somewhere beneath the oceans of Rythian's power, in the tiny pocket of air where Inner Parvis survived, a bright spark of hope ignited.

* * *

 

Hours had passed. Parvis had lost focus, because it was easier to not think about what was happening and let his body follow whatever orders it was given. For a long time, there had been only the sound of chisel on stone, the occasional hiss of breath as one or the other of them completed a rune.

At some point, Rythian had started muttering under his breath. He hadn't stopped, either, maintaining a low and incomprehensible mantra. Parvis wasn't sure if he was speaking in another language or if the words were simply nonsense, garbled by whatever frantic circus now ran within Rythian's head. There was blood smudged on Rythian's tools, and he kept rubbing at his eyes, smearing blood on his face, too.

 _It's his hands,_ Parvis concluded, after some thought. _He's got blisters all over his palms and they've torn open._

There was a sudden, sharp _crack,_ and Parvis started, looking over at Rythian. He had driven the chisel into the floor, burying it up to the hilt in the stone.

"It's not _enough,"_ he said, shooting to his feet and starting to pace. "It's not _enough,_ it's never fucking _enough!"_

Parvis stood, too, caught up between going to calm Rythian down and backing away slowly.

"Well, you . . . you _did_ say you'd acclimate," he said. His words were slurred, a product of the continued weight of the power drowning his brain.

 _"I know,"_ Rythian snarled. His voice was like the brush of sandpaper skin against a dangling leg—it came from somewhere dark, and it flooded Parvis with visceral terror.

He tripped over himself, trying to scurry backwards without taking his eyes off Rythian. He fell hard onto the floor, but Rythian had already turned away, pacing again.

"Never enough, never _enough,"_ Rythian was muttering. His fingers were twitching. "Again. No time. Never _enough._ Fine. More, then."

Parvis had just gotten back to his feet, shaking all over, when Rythian rounded on him.

"Stay here. If _anything_ is missing when I get back, I'll kill your stupid little _pet_ and eat his heart in front of you."

Parvis gaped, his stomach roiling, his blood icy.

"And if there aren't sixty more of those runes before I get back," Rythian went on, his eyes burning like hellfire, "I'm putting you in with the rest of the pigs."

"Like _hell_ you are!" Inner Parvis cried, blurting it out through Parvis's own mouth.

Rythian moved so fast he _blurred;_ one moment, he was standing six yards away, and then there was a silken noise and his hand was around Parvis's throat and he was so close that Parvis could smell the blood on his breath.

"It took me," he said slowly, his voice barely a murmur, "eighteen hours to break your darling Strife. How long, Parvis, do you think it would take me to break _you?"_

Parvis tried to gulp. The iron hand around his throat prevented him from doing so.

"How long has he been here?" he asked.

Rythian's smile would have given nightmares to the dead.

"A week," he said. "And _what_ a week it was."

"You son of a _bitch,"_ Parvis whispered, numb with horror.

 _Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it,_ Inner Parvis said, a low and insistent mantra.

"I'll be _right_ back, love," Rythian said, and the little endearment made Parvis's skin crawl. "I'd suggest you start carving, hm?"

There was the silken sound again, and Parvis toppled over, his neck burning with the memory of contact. He just caught a swirl of grubby white coat as Rythian disappeared up the stairs.

He sat on the floor, fingers hovering at his throat, for several minutes, while his racing heart slowed and the turmoil in his head quieted.

The altar gurgled, sending up a swirl of black smoke. Parvis's eye was drawn to it, and then drifted down to the little chisel, still buried up to the hilt in the stone floor.

 _Destroy it,_ Inner Parvis said. _Now, right now, for the love of God. He can't do anything to you without the magic. Cut him off. Destroy it._

Parvis sat and stared, all his muscles turned to water. His own chisel lay on the floor a few feet away, near the cold and abandoned plate of breakfast.

 _Do it!_ Inner Parvis yelled. _Do it_ _ now!  _

Slowly, he got to his feet. Moving as though in a dream, he crossed to the discarded chisel, knelt down next to it, grasped it in a shaking hand.

_Yes! Destroy it! End it! End it all!_

And he would be free, wouldn't he? Free from Rythian's control, from his influence; free from the driving buzz of the magic, free from the horror and the blood and the distant squealing of the pigs.

Free to face everything he'd done. Free to recall the waxen face, the tortured screaming. Free to face Strife, or whatever was left of him. Free to suffer through the agony of withdrawal again, and this time alone; certainly alone.

Stiffly, Parvis pulled down another blank slate from the stack and began carving.

He wept.

* * *

 

Parvis knocked on Strife's door. His eyes were bleary, his hands aching and blistered. He carried a bowl of apples and cooked potatoes and a large bottle of water.

"Strife?" Parvis called. "I've brought you dinner."

There was a quiet clinking noise, a faint scuffling. Parvis waited a moment longer, hoping in vain for some kind of verbal response. When none came, he sighed and, with some difficulty, opened the door.

Strife was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes and frowning. Parvis came in and nudged the door closed behind him. Strife spotted the bowl of food and was suddenly attentive, perking up like a terrier. Parvis set it and the bottle of water on the floor and stood back, and Strife fell upon it with gusto. Parvis sidled around him and settled himself on the mattress. There was a distinctive glugging noise as Strife drank from the bottle.

Parvis sat on the bed and waited. As expected, Strife came over and snuggled into his lap when he was done eating. Parvis held him, trying not to tremble.

"You . . . you remember how I said I'd get you out?" he said. His sinuses were already prickling with oncoming tears. He cleared his throat and tried to compose himself.

"I might have to . . . do that. Soon. Because Rythian's going to come back and there's no way I can do everything he's told me to and I'm—"

He broke off, choking on the lump in his throat. Strife lifted his head and regarded Parvis with vague concern. Parvis put a hand on the back of Strife's head and pulled it back down to his shoulder. Strife sighed and nuzzled him. Parvis swallowed down a sob.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Strife, but I can't leave you here with him, I won't leave you here. . . ."

His trembling hand made its way to his pocket, the warm and unforgiving hilt of the glass dagger.

 _It's better this way,_ he thought. His hand tightened on the dagger. _Better than living like this._

Strife lifted his head again. His eyes followed the line of Parvis's arm, lighted upon the shivering blade of the dagger. Parvis braced for panic, braced for screaming and frenzied blows, for the mad scramble for the exit and a messy slaughter.

Strife sighed, and bowed his head, and climbed out of Parvis's lap. He knelt next to him, eyes downcast, shivering. The scars stood out white against his skin. His breathing was steady and deliberate.

The little spark of hope, which had seemed extinguished, caught upon the latent vapors of hatred and filled Parvis with fire. His knuckles creaked as he clenched the dagger in his fist.

"I'm going to kill him," he said, and the flames licked at the raw edges of his voice. "I'm going to fucking _kill_ him."

Strife shrank into himself at the sound, shaking harder. The fire inside Parvis died on the instant.

"Hey, no, it's all right," he said, reaching out his free hand to Strife. He braced himself, sucking in a breath and holding it, his eyes squeezed shut. Parvis took his chin, as gently as he could, and lifted it.

"Look at me," he requested.

After a few panicked breaths, Strife cracked open an eye. Parvis made a show of tossing the knife across the room.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Parvis said.

Strife opened his other eye. He swallowed heavily, searching Parvis's face. Still trembling, he reached out a hand and plucked at Parvis's shirt.

"No," said Parvis, gently. "Not that, either."

"But," said Strife, scooting closer.

 _"No,_ Strife." He pushed Strife's hand away and stood up, sighing. "I've got to go, now. I don't know when Rythian'll be back, but . . . I dunno. Maybe there's time."

Strife grabbed a handful of his jeans.

"No," he said.

Parvis froze. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Strife. The other man was shaking visibly, and there was a look of terrified defiance on his face.

"No?" Parvis asked, as softly as he could.

Strife took a deep and shuddering breath, licked his lips, and repeated, "No."

 _There's no reason I can't just bring the damn slates in here,_ Parvis thought.

"I'm going to come right back," Parvis said. "Do you understand? I'm going to leave now, but I'll be right back. Okay?"

Strife's hand had tightened at the word _leave,_ but after a few moments of mulling it over, he released his grip on Parvis's jeans.

"Thank you," said Parvis.

Before he came back, he made sure to grab the pillow and blankets from his bed. He spent the rest of the day, and most of the night, carving slates, with Strife wrapped in blankets and dozing at his back.

* * *

 

Parvis first learned that Rythian had come back when all the air was sucked out of the room and he was left gasping and reeling, sparks swimming in front of his eyes. He must have lost consciousness, or at least coherence, because he came around again lying on the floor, with Strife frantically patting his face and chest and making concerned little noises. He managed to sit up, waving away Strife's hands. Strife grappled onto his arm, clutching tight enough to bruise.

Distantly, Parvis could recall the sound of screaming. Unsteadily, he got to his feet. Strife rose with him, clinging to him.

"I think he's back," Parvis mumbled. "I think I . . . should go check. On the altar and everything."

"No," said Strife, tugging on his arm.

Parvis pried himself loose. He took Strife's face in his hands and kissed his forehead.

"I'll be back. I promise. All right?"

Strife searched his face for a moment, then sighed and hung his head. Parvis kissed him again, and then left the room with that familiar gallows-dread hanging over him.

He found Rythian kneeling at the altar, his breathing deep and slow, his head bowed. The manic energy seemed to have gone out of him, and his voice, when he spoke, was hoarse and languid.

"Hello, Parvis," he said.

"Hello, Rythian," Parvis replied.

The altar gurgled. Rythian pressed a hand to its side and made quiet shushing noises.

"I will," he promised, "shh, shh, I will."

All the hairs on the back of Parvis's neck stood up. There was blood on Rythian's face, his hands. Spider-silk filaments of it were lifting up and drifting to the altar, hissing against it like falling snow.

"Where were you?" Parvis asked. The floor was humming under his feet. There was a new ring of illuminated runes. Four glass domes sat at the cardinal points of the new ring, and inside each was a blue-white dot that made Parvis's eyes sting and water.

"I was making monsters," Rythian said dreamily. He ran one claw down the side of the altar. "I was making monsters, and I was killing monsters. And I found so many little piggies, and I brought them home. And I can _see_ again, Parvis! I can see again, and the world is so beautiful now."

 _He's lost his mind,_ Parvis thought, his stomach churning.

Rythian lifted his head and looked at Parvis.

His eyes were glittering black all the way across, the polished sheen of obsidian. Blood was still crawling down his cheeks, wicking away towards the altar one thin filament at a time.

Parvis took a step back. Rythian stood up.

"I wouldn't say _lost,_ Parvis," he said softly. "It was no great loss."

 _Oh, fuck,_ Parvis thought, while his heart made a bid to hammer out of his body.

Rythian stepped down from the altar, trailing cobwebs of blood behind him.

"Oh, Parvis," he said fondly, smiling. "My frightened little rabbit. Fear doesn't suit you. I much prefer your adoration."

In the split-second before his mind was dragged into the vast abyss of Rythian's power, Parvis managed one single, furious thought.

_No._

 


	17. Chapter 17

Parvis came back to himself, which was surprising on its own.

He was also in his own bed, fully clothed, and mostly uninjured, which was downright baffling.

He checked for a pulse, on the off-chance that he was dead. When he found it, he pinched himself sharply, several times. He did not wake up, and was forced to conclude that it was because he wasn't dreaming.

He swung his feet out of bed, trying to recall how he'd gotten there and how long he'd been out. He was dizzy, his skin noticeably pale; there were a few shallow cuts on his chest, and there were oblong bruises blooming on his arm and hand; the buzz of magic still tickled at the insides of his veins. His stomach was unsettled, and a low fog of dread hung over his brain. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something urgent he should be doing.

The house was quiet and empty, the floors cold under his bare feet. Parvis made a cursory search for Rythian and, not finding him, made himself a small breakfast and a cup of coffee.

As he sat, turning the warm mug between his hands, bits and pieces of lost time came drifting back to the surface of his consciousness like flotsam from a sunken ship.

He recalled lying on his back on the altar, his head lolling over the side; he recalled the bitter taste of healing potions; he recalled endless waves of pain and pleasure, rolling over each other until they were indistinguishable.

Parvis paused halfway through a sip of coffee. Something about that wasn't right—the magic only affected the one performing it, or at least up until now it had. Rythian had even said as much, and he'd invented it.

He looked down at his hands. There were bits of black grit under his fingernails. Between the oblong bruises were little welts, as though something had pinched the skin harder than was good for it. Darker things were rising up from his memory now, the bloated corpses of his deeds floating up to the surface all pale and misshapen.

Coffee sloshed over the side of the mug. The ceramic clattered on the table when Parvis put it down. He got to his feet unsteadily, his eyes focused on far-away things, and started down towards the altar room.

There had been so much blood. It had tickled, the way the altar pulled it off of him. He remembered laughing at the sensation. There had been a great many sensations, and all of them pleasant. Someone had been screaming. It hadn't been Parvis.

And where had Rythian gone?

Parvis found himself running down the stairs, headlong, always a single misstep away from tumbling down and shattering himself in a hundred places. His breath came sharp and uneven. He didn't bother taking the corner at the bottom of the stairs, just leapt the ten feet down to the floor and took the impact as best he could. It sent needles of pain all the way up to his knees, but he got back to his feet and kept running, across the altar room, down the hallway behind it.

He pulled up short at Strife's door, struggling to breathe, his heartbeat frantic in his chest.

Sick with dread, he looked in the little window.

Strife was pale, but breathing. His body was covered in dozens of wounds, scabbed over but still oozing. Dark bruises edged out from underneath the collar around his neck. His chain had been ripped out of the wall at some point, leaving two ragged holes in the rock. It had subsequently been hammered back in, a few feet from its old anchor point. The pillow and blankets that Parvis had brought down were gone, as were all the pieces of Benny the Bunny.

Parvis looked down at his hand, at the bruises and welts. He looked back up at Strife, at the way the collar had mottled his whole neck with bruises. He looked at his arm again.

Just how hard had he been _pulling?_

Parvis clenched his fist and forced himself to look inside again, to absorb the facts of the situation. Strife was not shivering. His breathing was quick and labored. His eyes were closed.

_And he had been so warm, and his lips so sweet, and it had been so easy to justify because at least he wasn't screaming anymore—_

Parvis ran all the way back upstairs, his lungs full of fire, his legs burning with the exertion. He ransacked the kitchen, searching desperately for a healing potion, throwing food and dishes alike onto the floor. The shelf where the bottles usually sat was bare. The brewing stand was gone. The cupboard where Rythian kept the ingredients was empty. Parvis tore the kitchen apart and found nothing.

Rythian's room was as barren as it appeared; everything was folded neatly away, every surface meticulously cleaned but now covered with a thin layer of dust.

The chests in the old thaumaturgy room were filled with nothing but junk. Parvis fell back from them and put his head in his hands, panic clawing at his chest.

Surely, they couldn't have used up _all_ of the potions? There had been plenty last night—plenty, at least, for him to drink, for Rythian to force between his numb lips—but they couldn't all be _gone,_ not now, not with Strife so pale and still.

Like a grey shape in the gloom, Rythian's words came back to him, spoken without consequence and, at the time, without impact.

_They're very useful for keeping the piggies alive._

Parvis shot to his feet and hurried down the stairs again. His head was spinning, and twice he had to catch himself on the wall to keep from falling. Again, he hurried across the altar room and to the hallway. He could feel the altar pulling on the blood inside him the whole way.

He stopped at the iron door set into the wall. Faintly, he could hear the pigs snuffling and grunting inside.

"Please," he whispered, and hauled the door open, and darted inside.

He stopped. The door thudded closed behind him. He stared with eyes the size of dinner plates and tried to remember how to breathe.

The room was long, and low. Parvis's head almost brushed the stone ceiling. There were six pens, three against each wall, with an aisle through the middle. At least thirty pigs occupied the one just to Parvis's right, jostling each other and milling about with dull, piggy purpose.

Spread amongst the other five pens were several dozen people.

Their eyes were downcast, their faces slack and pale. Each pen seemed to have a purpose, at which its occupants worked mindlessly. In one there was a brewing stand; in another, a stunted tree that, even as Parvis watched, bloomed and began to fruit. One pen held a forge and a pile of scrap gold—rings, armor, weapons, raw ore, all jumbled together and picked through with equal lethargy. One pen tended to a farm of hideous, dripping nether-wart. In the last one, the occupants simply languished, paler and weaker than their counterparts.

Parvis recognized some of them.

The bright orange of Honeydew's beard drifted like an errant spark between the pile of gold and the forge. Nano stood on her tip-toes to pluck an apple from the misshapen tree. Xephos and Nilesy knelt together in the dark sand amongst the nether-wart, plucking up the slimy stems with clumsy fingers. Lomadia tended to the brewing stand, her long hair tangled and trailing in her face. Strippin lay on the floor, barely breathing, his eyes open and unseeing.

And there were others, dozens of others, human and testificate alike, all farming and forging and brewing—and no sooner was a bottle filled with fizzing pink liquid than it was shunted off to be drunk or, in some cases, poured down the throat of an unresisting victim.

No sooner did the drinker perk up than they would shiver and flinch and return to their duller state. The light was low, but Parvis fancied he could see spiraling filaments of blood drifting from their bodies and floating away towards the altar, squeezing through the pores in the rock.

Parvis found himself shaking, one hand over his mouth, his breath stalled out in his throat.

Behind him, there was a quiet sigh. He didn't bother to look.

"I told you it would only upset you," Rythian said, "didn't I, Parvis?"

Parvis said nothing. Before him, the wretched organic machinery churned on.

_Monster,_ Inner Parvis hissed.

_"Monster?"_ Rythian said, incredulous.

Parvis's whole body went cold. His hand tightened on his own face, as though it could somehow silence his thoughts, too.

"No," Rythian went on. "Not a _monster,_ Parvis. A god. A fledgeling god, perhaps, but you'll see how my wings will grow. A god of blood and death. Those with power have held it too long, and they have grown complacent and foolish. They play their stupid games and tend their little gardens, and very soon, Parvis, very soon they will be dead. Dead as only gods can be, with their names buried and their deeds forgotten. And I will remind these poor, stupid mortals why it is they fear the darkness, and they will carve my name into the walls of their cells with their _fingernails,_ and even when I have gone I will never truly die, because no god dies while he is remembered."

There was a smile in his voice that made Parvis's skin crawl, and the feeling of his obsidian gaze on his back was like a current, eddying in the murk.

"And oh, Parvis," he breathed, rapturous. "They will _never_ forget _me."_

_He's mad,_ Inner Parvis said, choked with horror.

"Am I?" Rythian asked, sending another chill scurrying down Parvis's spine. "If this is madness, then I pity the sane."

Slowly, Parvis removed his hand from his mouth. His fingers hovered at his throat, having nowhere else to go.

"How long?" he croaked.

_"How long,_ what?"

He swallowed, made a trembling gesture towards the room at large.

"How long have they been here?"

"Oh, _that._ I don't remember. A few days? Maybe a week or two. It really isn't important."

_How can you not_ _know?_ Inner Parvis demanded.

Rythian heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"Because it doesn't _matter._ They're here now and serving a much better purpose than they were outside. And their minds are so lovely and quiet. Not a thought to be seen. I almost envy them."

_Seen?_ Inner Parvis wondered.

"I need one of the potions," Parvis said, talking over his inner self.

"Don't do that," Rythian said. "It's hard to listen and read at the same time."

_Then quit fucking reading,_ Inner Parvis snapped.

"Sorry," said Parvis.

Rythian's hand settled on the back of his neck. Parvis went stiff.

"What do you need a potion for?" he inquired. "You seem fine to me."

"'S for Strife," he said. His teeth were chattering.

"Oh, _him,"_ said Rythian, as though he'd forgotten that Strife existed. "I thought you'd killed him. Well, fine, have a potion if you want one. The ritual won't take anything they can't spare, anyway."

_What do you mean, you thought_ _I'd_ _killed him?_ Inner Parvis demanded.

"Talk slower, little thing. Your kerning is _abysmal_ when you're going that fast."

"What d'you mean," Parvis quavered, "you thought _I'd_ killed him?"

"It's not that hard to figure out," Rythian said. "Honestly, there's no reason for me to let you keep your mind if you're not going to use it."

Parvis gulped, and came to the inevitable conclusion.

_"I_ did that to him," he said.

"Almost exclusively," Rythian confirmed. "It was your idea."

_No,_ said Inner Parvis. _No, fuck no, I wouldn't._

"You did," said Rythian.

_Stop_ _doing_ _that!_ Inner Parvis retorted.

Rythian's hand crawled, spider-like, around Parvis's neck, and settled gently over his throat.

"As long as you keep talking," he said, "I'll keep answering. But I could shut you up, if I wanted."

He kissed Parvis's cheek. His lips burned against the skin.

"Would you like me to shut him up, Parvis?" he inquired.

"N-no," he stammered.

Rythian kissed him again. The tips of his claws were dimpling the skin of Parvis's neck.

"No _what?"_ he prompted.

"No, master," Parvis said. Even now, saying it sent a jolt of reckless desire through him.

Rythian hummed an affirmation and planted yet another kiss to Parvis's cheek.

"Good boy, Parvis," he murmured. "Have your potion, treat your pet. I'll be away this evening. I have to kill a dragon, you see."

"What . . . for?" Parvis asked.

"Oh, on general principle. I'm making this up as I go along. I think the Queen is a good starting point. There's a lot that can be done with a dragon's heart."

"Oh," said Parvis.

Rythian sighed. "My genius is wasted on you," he said, and took his hand off of Parvis's throat.

By the time Parvis had worked up the courage to turn around, Rythian was gone.

* * *

 

Strife came around slowly, blinking and sighing, his head lolling back over Parvis's forearm. Parvis wiped the dribbles of potion off his chin, although much of it stayed stuck in the scraggly beard that Strife had developed. Parvis made an effort to smile. It made blinking back the tears that much more difficult, but it would have felt wrong not to.

"Hi," he said softly.

Idly, one of Strife's hands plucked at his shirt. He made a soft noise in his throat and tried to snuggle closer. Parvis shook his head, biting his lip to stop it from quivering. His teeth pricked the tender skin, just shy of puncturing it.

"Good," Strife said desperately, clutching Parvis's shirt with both hands now. "Good. Good boy. _Good_ boy?"

Parvis put a hand over his own mouth, fighting down nausea, squeezing his eyes shut. The tears spilled over and trailed down his cheeks. His breath came short and irregular.

_You_ _monster,_ Inner Parvis accused, his voice thick with disgust.

Strife was tugging on him, trying to pull himself upright and failing. He grabbed Parvis's arm, pulling his hand halfway off his mouth, and desperately kissed whatever skin he could reach.

"Good?" he asked again, an edge of panic in his cracking voice. "Good boy? Good boy?"

Parvis crumbled, sobbing, too sick with himself to move. Strife was growing more frantic every second, struggling to get his hands on Parvis's shoulders, pressing his forehead to Parvis's chest as he tried to get his lips to his neck, repeating the same two words over and over with terror evident in every syllable.

"Yes," Parvis choked, between the racking sobs. "Yes. Good boy, Strife. Good—good boy."

Strife stilled, until only the perpetual plucking of his fingers remained. He sighed, and started shivering.

Parvis sobbed helplessly until, without warning, something hit him like a tidal wave, and he blacked out.

* * *

 

Strife was asleep when Parvis came around again, his head pillowed on Parvis's chest, his fingers tangled in his shirt. Parvis managed to extract himself without waking the other man, and staggered dizzily back to the altar room.

It was empty. The four glass domes now sat at the bases of four pillars of brilliant white light, which speared up into the ceiling and bleached the stone white. There was another, even larger ring of runes, yet another level lower. The altar was slurping and gurgling and smoking, and even from outside the largest ring of runes, Parvis could feel it tugging on him, shifting his brain in his skull, pressing his heart and lungs against his ribs, making his veins wiggle as the blood ran through them. Rythian was nowhere to be seen.

Parvis checked the pens; Rythian was not there, either. All the pigs had drifted to the wall nearest the altar, and even the people were keeping mostly to one side of their pens.

The upstairs was silent as the grave. The mess he'd made in the kitchen remained, untouched.

Parvis went and sat down on his old bed and stared at his palms.

After a moment's consideration, he clasped his hands together and got down on his knees.

_Please,_ he begged, of no one and everyone, of any ears that might be listening.

_Please, don't let him come back._

* * *

 

The hours passed, dawn to noon to sunset. The altar gurgled and slurped—he could hear it like a ringing in his ears, like the growling of his own stomach. He cleaned up the kitchen, throwing away the ruined food and the broken dishes. He scrubbed the floor. He made a little dinner for Strife and took it down to him. Strife fell asleep in his arms shortly thereafter. Parvis left him there after an hour or so.

He found himself back in the altar room. He found he no longer had a reason to leave.

Six times that day, he took out his broken glass dagger and thought about how _easy_ it would be to die.

Six times that day, he put it away again, because if Rythian _didn't_ come back, Strife would starve to death and so would all the people in the ritual room, and the altar would overflow with their stolen blood.

There was never a moment when his unspoken prayers were allowed to fall silent.

_Please, don't let him come back._

But he came back.

He came back bloodied, and staggering, carrying a bundle of night under his arm. There were stars inside it, impossibly distant, and his skin had turned white with cold wherever it touched him.

He walked up to the altar and collapsed against it, breathless. Parvis remained where he was, where he had been for uncounted hours—sitting atop the little tool chest in the corner, the incongruous homely touch in a vile and twisted church.

"Hello, Parvis," Rythian said, slurring drunkenly. "I'm home!"

_Kill him now,_ Inner Parvis hissed, before he could be stopped.

Parvis froze, not even daring to breathe.

Rythian lifted his head and looked over the altar at him.

"Well?" he prompted.

Parvis took three attempts at swallowing before he managed it.

"W-well what?" he asked.

"Are you going to?" Rythian asked.

_Right fucking now,_ _do it!_ Inner Parvis screamed, lashing out impotently.

"Is he always like this?" Rythian inquired, tipping his head to the side. It was hard to tell, but some clarity seemed to be returning to his gaze. The altar was burbling like a brook, and the blood was peeling off of Rythian's skin in sheets.

"Yes," Parvis managed.

Rythian clicked his teeth and got to his feet. He rolled his shoulder and it made an alarming cracking noise. He flexed his fingers and smiled.

"That's better," he remarked, before turning his attention back to Parvis. "Do you think any of the piggies know how to carve? I bet I could get them to carve runes for me. Otherwise the next upgrade is going to take _far_ too long. I'll be wasting enough time as it is working out what to put at the cardinal points. . . ."

"Are you . . . talking about upgrading?" Parvis asked. _Again,_ he did not add.

"Yes, _again,"_ Rythian said, a note of impatience in his voice. He picked up the bundle of night and examined it. Black smoke curled from his hands where he touched it. "I'm not sure _what_ I'm going to do with this. Raise it, maybe. Having a little princeling around could prove useful."

Parvis's perception shifted, and the bundle clicked into shape.

_It's an egg,_ Inner Parvis said.

"Of course it's an egg, what else would it be?" Rythian said. He admired it for a moment, then took it over to the door in the wall that led to the freezer, so long unused. Casually, he kicked the door open. The wood splintered.

Parvis got to his feet.

"Won't that . . . kill it?" he asked.

"Hm?" said Rythian, who was already inside. He emerged again, dusting off his hands, and pulled the door closed behind him.

Parvis gestured to the freezer. "Being in there. Won't it kill the . . . egg?"

_Who fucking_ _cares,_ _why are you talking about this?_ Inner Parvis demanded.

"Because I like talking about it," Rythian answered, a gleam in his eye. "And no, it won't. It came from somewhere cold. It'll keep."

Words were already queuing up on Parvis's tongue, inane and mundane and nowhere near what he wanted to say.

Before he could speak any of them, even before Inner Parvis could weigh in on the situation, there was an ear-splitting _boom_ and the whole base shuddered.

The ceiling cracked, and dust showered down on Parvis's head. The altar gurgled unhappily. Rythian shushed it with a gesture, looking up at the ceiling.

"I think the last of your guests have arrived, Parvis," he remarked, a smile playing around his lips.

_Please, God, let it be Kirin,_ Inner Parvis prayed.

"No," Rythian said, "it's not his style. Let's go see, hm? It's rude to leave guests waiting."

There was another explosion. The cracks in the ceiling widened and spread, writing spider-web patterns into the rock. More dust showered down. The rock groaned.

Rythian flicked a hand irritably, and phantasmal pillars sprang up all across the room. They were red, translucent, and ended in clawed hands. They pressed their palms to the ceiling, and the tortured groans of the rock went silent.

"Come on, Parvis," Rythian said lightly. There was a silken sound and a blur, and he was standing on the stairs. Parvis hurried after him, tripping over his own feet.

"What if they blow us up?" Parvis heard himself ask, as they ascended.

"Then we probably deserved it, for being stupid." He clicked his teeth. "Such frantic little minds they have, Parvis. It must be so unpleasant. Oh well. Easily fixed."

There were no further explosions. They emerged into the ruins of the kitchen, the stone warm beneath their feet. The main part of the house was in splinters, most of them on fire. The air smelled of gunpowder and steel.

A hundred yards away, there were two figures, silhouetted against the stars. Two plumes of smoke hung above them. As Parvis watched, the taller one lowered a long cylinder from its shoulder, letting it fall to the ground. Rythian waved. The figures began to approach.

"Our house is gone," Parvis pointed out, staring around at the destruction.

Rythian shrugged. "And?"

"All my stuff was in there," he said.

Rythian gave him an incredulous look. "And?" he asked again.

Fidgeting, Parvis mumbled, "I liked my stuff."

"Oh, Parvis," he sighed. "I told you to move it all downstairs, and you didn't listen."

_He never said that,_ Inner Parvis declared.

"Didn't I?" Rythian said. "Oh, well. It should have been obvious."

A chill ran down Parvis's spine. His body wouldn't shiver, not standing this close to Rythian, but there was always an abyssal coldness that came over him when Rythian responded to the inside of his head.

The two attackers were close enough now for Parvis to make out the details of their appearance: two women, one tall and broad, one short and stocky with hair like a waterfall of fire.

Rythian grinned and strode out to meet them.

"Zoey!" he cried, delighted.

He put an arm around her waist, and a hand on her cheek, and kissed her full on the mouth.

Parvis's blood curdled. Fiona—for the other woman must have been Fiona—just stood there, watching it all happen. Gunpowder was streaked over her face. Her expression was blank and dull, her shoulders slumped under the weight of Rythian's power.

Rythian broke off the kiss and threw an arm around Zoey's shoulders. Her eyes were glassy, her face slack. Rythian started back towards Parvis, and she went along with him like a doll.

_Bastard,_ Inner Parvis spat.

Rythian pulled up next to Parvis and touched his cheek.

"I didn't see you complaining when I made Strife love _you,"_ he pointed out. "Besides, she's happy. Aren't you, Zoey?"

She nodded. Her eyes were unfocused, staring into space. Rythian squeezed her.

"See? I wish you would be like her, Parvis. All quiet inside her head. It's such a lovely silence. All colors and shapes, and not a single word to be seen."

He turned and kissed the top of her head.

"Go grab that little piggy and put it with the others, would you, Parvis?" Rythian said, gesturing vaguely towards Fiona.

_She's not a pig,_ Inner Parvis snapped.

Rythian turned his head, slowly.

"Yes, master," Parvis blurted, already starting towards Fiona. His legs stopped working after a single step, and he was left frozen in place, his heart pounding.

"No," Rythian mused, "no, Parvis, that vicious little scribbler inside your head is right. She's _not_ a pig. And I won't treat her like a pig. I'm sure, little scribbler, that you remember what I did to all the _people?"_

_I'll kill you before you hurt her,_ Inner Parvis snarled.

Rythian laughed.

"Bring her to the altar, Parvis. Holding the ceiling up has made me thirsty."

"You . . . can't hurt her," Zoey mumbled.

Parvis's heart nearly leapt out of his throat. He had crossed the short distance to Fiona and taken her arm, and was now leading her back towards the hole in the middle of the blackened ruins. He could feel her muscles twitching under his hand.

"Good," he whispered, and squeezed her arm. He hoped she could understand.

Rythian kissed the top of Zoey's head again.

"Actually, I can," he said. "The only thing I _can't_ do is kill her. A funny little gift from Kirin. Isn't it funny, Parvis? I can't kill anyone anymore."

_Well,_ _that_ _explains a lot,_ Inner Parvis said.

"Doesn't it?" Rythian said brightly. "But I'm not worried. I can think of _so_ many ways to keep her alive. And one day soon I'll be a god, and I'll kill anyone I want to."

The four of them started the long descent to the altar room. There were cracks in all the walls, in the stairs beneath their feet. The further they went, the heavier the presence of all the rock above became, until Parvis's scalp was prickling with it.

Rythian put Zoey in a corner and left her there with a quick peck on the lips. He returned to Parvis and took Fiona from him. Parvis tried to hang on, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Rythian brought Fiona up to the altar, leading her by the hand.

"Where do you think I should start, Parvis?" Rythian inquired, looking Fiona up and down. "It's been so long since I've had the chance to play. There are so _many_ ways to not kill her, Parvis. Kirin really is a stupid creature, isn't he."

Parvis looked over at Zoey. She was standing still, but a cloud of doubt had come over her face now that Rythian wasn't paying attention to her.

Rythian was still considering Fiona. Parvis waved a hand at Zoey, keeping his thoughts muffled and wordless.

Slowly, Zoey turned to look at him, blinking.

_It has to be now,_ Inner Parvis blurted.

Rythian's head turned.

"Parvis, be _quiet,"_ he snapped.

The power came down over him, dark and silent, and his eyes came unfocused. His knees buckled under him, and he had to take a moment to catch his breath.

Zoey blinked again, and her eyes flicked to Rythian and the altar. She looked back to Parvis, and he met her eyes.

He pointed to the chest in the corner, where all the carving tools were kept. She glanced at it before meeting his eyes again. He raised his eyebrows. He was biting his lip so hard that blood was seeping into his mouth.

"I think," Rythian mused, walking a slow circle around Fiona, "I'll start with her fingers."

Carefully, deliberately, Zoey nodded, just once.

Rythian had drawn the dagger from his belt. He took one of Fiona's hands in his, lifted it up, kissed her fingertips.

Parvis couldn't breathe. His heart pounded in his chest as though desperate to escape the doom of his body. His mind was racing too fast for words now.

There was only one way to distract a shark when the water was already opaque with blood.

Parvis shot to his feet, and clenched his fists, and threw the full weight of his mind behind a single word, cried out together with his inner self.

_"Enough,"_ he said.

The knife paused, its point just dimpling the skin of Fiona's fingertip.

Rythian turned to look at Parvis, the black of his eyes glittering in the light of the beacons.

"Oh, _Parvis,"_ he sighed.

And the entire ocean of his power came crashing down on Parvis's head.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, so much, for taking this journey with me.  
> Fare thee well.

There was a moment of crushing darkness, an immense weight that drove him to his knees, squeezed the air from his lungs and clenched a fist around his heart. There was pain beyond imagining, needles through his bones and fire in his flesh. His skull was in a vice, and his brain was trying to tunnel out.

Rythian's voice cut through it all like a knife, jagged and cruel.

"I have been," he said,  _ "exceedingly _ kind to you, Parvis. I have given you everything you wanted. I have kept your nightmares at bay and saved you from the horror of yourself. I have made you feel only what you wanted to feel. But perhaps you haven't realized, Parvis, that I can make you feel  _ whatever I want." _

_ "No," _ Parvis hissed, through gritted teeth. He raised his head and looked at Rythian, though it seemed the air had turned to stone.

Rythian was smiling.

"Yes," he said. He had turned away from Fiona. Slowly, he advanced down the tiers of the altar. Everything else in Parvis's vision had gone grey.

_ "Enough," _ he gasped again. He tried to push himself to his feet. He might as well have tried to lift the whole world.

"Never," said Rythian. "Fear me, Parvis."

It struck him like the end of a thirty-story fall. His blood turned to ice, his heart stopped. His mind went white with terror, eclipsing all thought and reason, blinding him.

_ "No," _ Parvis choked.

"No? Then perhaps some remorse is in order."

Guilt, tarry and suffocating, clawed out from his insides like a monster, tearing through him in a rampage.

_ And Strife had been crying, and Parvis had laughed at him— _

_ "No!" _ he cried. The weight of the guilt forced his head down, squeezed tears from his eyes.

_ —It had been his idea— _

"Do you really think you can fight me, Parvis?" Rythian asked. "You let this happen."

_ And Martyn was dead, and Sjin was dead, and Lalna was dead, because of him— _

"Stop," he begged, gasping for breath. His heart ached, longing for an end to its wretched beating.

"Never," Rythian said again.

_ And how many more would die, because of him, because of  _ _ him _ _ — _

"Please," Parvis whimpered, curling into himself.

Rythian took his chin in his hand, claws pricking at the tender flesh. He lifted Parvis's face, and Parvis stared up at him through the blur of tears, hopeless, ruined.

Rythian's smile was almost kind.

"Kirin's little gift keeps me from killing anyone human," he said softly. "But after everything you've done, Parvis, I think you no longer qualify."

Parvis sobbed. He could not find the strength to look away.

And from the corner of his eye, he saw movement—

Rythian touched the knife to his throat.

"Thank me, Parvis," he murmured.

And Zoey was standing at the altar—

"Thank . . . you," Parvis whispered, "master."

Rythian smiled. "Good boy, Parvis," he said.

And in one swift movement, Zoey raised Parvis's little chisel high above her head and plunged it down into the altar—

And Rythian  _ screamed. _

He shoved Parvis away and threw himself at Zoey, hurtling through the air with a silken sound. He dropped to the ground halfway there, his knees cracking against the stone. Zoey clambered over the altar and grabbed Fiona, dragged her down the tiers, away from Rythian. He was still screaming.

The altar gurgled, then moaned. Blood began to seep from the crack in its top—welling, then bubbling, then fountaining into the air, gallons upon gallons of it, until it splashed the ceiling and ran in rivers down the carved stone steps. The pillars of red light that held up the ceiling flickered like candles in the wind, twisting and distorting.

"No," Rythian gasped. He shambled to his feet and staggered blindly towards the altar. He tripped over the first step and toppled down. Gasping, wheezing, he crawled up the steps, his eyes wide and unblinking, his body twitching. He clawed his way up the altar and pressed his hands to the gushing wound, spraying blood everywhere, doing nothing to stymie the flow.

"No, no, please, no," he begged, his voice cracking.

Overhead, the rock groaned. The blood kept coming. It was an inch deep on the ground.

Rythian wailed, falling back, clutching at his own chest. He was crying, the tears drawing tracks through the blood that covered his face.

"Please," he gasped, writhing like a drowned worm.

The phantasmal pillars toppled into themselves and vanished. The ceiling sagged, creaking and cracking and showering dust upon them. Blood continued to pour from the altar, rolling down the tiered floor, lapping against Rythian's body.

"It hurts," he whimpered. "It hurts . . . it hurts. . . ."

He wound down like a toy, and blinked one last pair of tears from his eyes, and was still.

Clarity burst down over Parvis like sunlight. His bones ached, his muscles burned, his blood was like acid in his veins—but for the first time in months, he found his mind on solid ground.

"The others," he said urgently, looking to Zoey and Fiona, huddled against the wall. He pointed to the hallway. "Get them out!"

"I—" Fiona began, her face drawn with horror.

Zoey hauled on her arm, pulling her down the hall. Their feet splashed in the blood.

Parvis pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the wall. He, too, hurried off down the hallway, dizzied, in pain, but possessed of a singular and burning purpose.

The whole base shivered. Chips of stone showered down on his head. He passed the iron door, now standing open. A wave of sound washed over him—raised voices, the frightened squealing of pigs, the clicks and creaks and cracks as the rock overhead slowly lost the fight with gravity. Parvis hurried past, all the way to the end of the hall, and shoved Strife's door open with the full weight of his body.

Strife had his feet up against the wall, both hands clutching his chain, straining with all his might to yank it from its moorings. He was already glistening with sweat, and there was a wild snarl on his face.

He slipped to the floor when he caught sight of Parvis, but scrambled to his feet again, backing away until he was pressed against the far wall, his movements frantic, animalistic.

Parvis did not pause. He darted inside, wrapped the chain around both of his wrists, and pulled with all his strength. After only a moment, he felt Strife take up the chain behind him and join in the effort.

The metal staple groaned, then squealed, then popped free in a shower of dust. Parvis toppled to the floor. Above him, cracks were spreading over the ceiling, chasing each other through the stone, disgorging dust and sand.

Strife was trying to get to his feet and failing. Nonetheless, he was progressing towards the door, falling over himself, rising and tripping and crawling and rising again. Parvis got upright and tried to help Strife up, but Strife struck his hand, hard, and snarled at him.

Behind them, a chunk of the ceiling fell in, shattering on the floor.

Parvis gathered up Strife's chain in one hand and took Strife's arm in the other. Strife hit him again, but Parvis held on, half-dragging him through the door. They stumbled down the corridor together, through the pooling blood; across the altar room, where more pieces of the ceiling were falling in; up the quaking stairs and  _ out. _

Parvis ran until the ground stopped crunching under his feet. He let himself fall to his hands and knees, dropping both Strife and the chain, burying his fingers in soft grass.

Behind them, the earth groaned and shuddered. Parvis turned, sitting and panting and trembling.

A flood of people came bubbling up from the hole in the ground—a dozen at least. As they ran and staggered and shambled away from the blasted ruins of the house, the earth crumbled under their feet. The rock cracked and caved, and with a deafening  _ boom _ and a great cloud of dust, the underground caverns collapsed.

There was silence.

Slowly, Parvis became aware of a sound to his right. Though it was a Herculean task, he turned his head.

Strife was kneeling on the ground, his head tilted back, his eyes lifted to the hundred trillion stars that glittered overhead, sobbing.

Parvis looked back to the ruins, to the people picking themselves up among the jumbled stone.

Then he, too, turned his eyes to the sky—the vast, cold,  _ free _ sky—and wept.

* * *

 

Morning came, in time. The dawn was bright and golden, driving off the chill of night.

All around him, the survivors were pulling themselves together. The testificates had formed a tight huddle, honking and humming amongst themselves. The people sat in pairs or small groups, talking in low, raw voices, piecing together what had happened.

Not everyone was there. Strippin was nowhere to be seen. Parvis gathered, from listening to the various conversations, that Xephos had gone back for Honeydew, promising to catch up.

The ceiling had fallen in on them before he had.

Strife was sitting alone, his knees curled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins. He stared at the ruins, expressionless. He had not moved in hours.

Parvis had set himself against an apple tree, mainly to keep himself from falling over. He found himself unbearably tired, but unable to sleep. So he sat and listened, and tried not to think.

Around midday, Zoey came over and sat down next to him.

"Hungry?" she asked.

Parvis shook his head. "Are you . . . all right?" he said, because he could think of nothing else to say.

"No," she answered.

He swallowed, blinking back a sudden bout of tears.

"Sorry," he said. "Stupid question."

There was silence between them, for a time.

"I'm going to climb up your tree and get some apples," Zoey said at last. "Everybody's pretty hungry."

"Sure," said Parvis.

Zoey climbed the tree. She left an apple next to him before she returned to the group.

* * *

 

On the second day, the testificates all left. The rest of the survivors were, so far as Parvis could tell by constant eavesdropping, glad to see them go.

Strife still hadn't moved. Several people had tried to get through to him—Zoey had brought him food, Lomadia had offered her cloak, Fiona had spoken quietly to him for nearly an hour—but he hadn't moved, hadn't so much as looked at any of them. Eventually, Zoey told the others that he probably just needed time, and that they should keep an eye on them.

Parvis watched him, saw him shiver, saw the little expressions chase across his face.

Unsteadily, he got to his feet and tottered over to the main group, circled around a low-burning fire.

Before he was ten feet away, Nano shot to her feet, her eyes full of fire.

"Get back," she snarled, her fists clenched at her sides. "You get back, you stay  _ away." _

"Nano," Fiona said, rising as well, holding out a placating hand.

"Shut up," Nano snapped. "Shut  _ up!" _

"It's not his  _ fault," _ Fiona went on.

"Yes it is. Yes it  _ damn _ well is!"

"Listen," Fiona said. "Nano, listen. We would have gone back for Lalna. Just like we would have gone back for Strippin. There wasn't time. There weren't enough of us. None of that is his fault."

"I don't care!" Nano cried. She rounded on Parvis again. "I don't care, it's your fault he's dead! It's  _ your _ fault he's dead!"

She started towards him. Fiona caught her by the arm. The others were watching silently, but Parvis could see the darkness in their expressions.

"Lalna's . . . been dead," Parvis said, as gently as he could. "For weeks."

"Not  _ my _ Lalna!" Nano retorted. "Not  _ my _ Lalna, he was here, he was down there, you  _ left _ him, you left him there, you would have left us  _ all—" _

"Nano, stop," Fiona said.

Zoey got to her feet and placed herself between Nano and Parvis.

"It's my fault," she stated.

For a moment, everyone stared at her.

"No," Nano said thickly. There were tears welling in her eyes. "No, it's not."

"I made the decision to leave them," Zoey said steadily. "Not Parvis. Not anyone else. So blame me, if you have to blame anyone."

"Blame me," Fiona said. "I'm the one who blew up the ceiling."

"Stop," Nano said, trembling. "Stop it, both of you."

"If you're going to blame anyone," Lomadia said, her lip curling, "blame bloody  _ Rythian." _

A general murmur of agreement ran through the survivors.

Zoey stiffened. Fiona shot her a look, and she shook her head, almost imperceptibly.

"He's just as bad," Nano said, the fire rising in her voice again. She gestured sharply to Parvis. "He was his fucking  _ accomplice, _ wasn't he?"

Parvis took a half step back. Nano tried to advance on him again, stopped only by Fiona's hand on her arm.

"You think I didn't  _ see _ you?" she snarled. "You think we couldn't hear you  _ laughing? _ You're  _ just _ as bad as him—"

"Nano,  _ stop," _ Fiona insisted.

"We should kill him now," Nano said. "Before we end up in fucking  _ pens _ again."

Parvis could feel their gazes on him, hot and sharp and heavy with blame.

"That's enough," Zoey said.

"No! No, it bloody well isn't, not with that fucking  _ monster _ running around loose—"

"He's just as much a victim as the rest of us!" Zoey cried, more viciously than Parvis would have thought possible.

_ "Like hell." _

Every head turned, even Parvis's, even Zoey's.

Strife had not moved, but his jaw was set so tightly that it was making the veins in his temples stand out, his fingers were digging into his calves; and the voice had been his, undeniably, gravel-rough and thick with disgust.

"See?" Nano crowed.  _ "See?" _

"He's wrong," Zoey said.

"You don't know that," Lomadia pointed out. She got to her feet, dusting off her hands. "You weren't there, were you."

At her side, Nilesy buried his face in his hands.

"Lom," he said, pained.

Lomadia hesitated, then sat down again. She put an arm around Nilesy's shoulders, and he leaned against her.

"I don't care what  _ any _ of you say," Nano snarled. "I'm killing him before he kills us."

"No," Zoey said. "You're not."

"And who's going to stop me?  _ You?" _

"And me," Fiona volunteered.

Nano fumed, grinding her teeth.

"Fine," she spat. "But I'm not sticking around for the bloody massacre this time."

She stalked off. Fiona let her go.

Unsteadily, Parvis made his way back to his tree. He sat down, put his back against it, and curled up as small as he would go.

After a few minutes, someone came and sat down next to him.

"I'm sorry," Zoey said.

Parvis sniffled.

"Someone'd better get Strife some clothes," he said. "He's going to freeze otherwise. There should be something left in the house, if it's not all burned up."

"I'll ask Fiona to look," Zoey promised.

After a moment, she added, "He was wrong, you know."

"He wasn't," Parvis said bitterly.

"Yes," Zoey said, "he really was."

"You don't know that. You couldn't possibly know that."

"I was there," she said. "The first time round. I know what he was like. It wasn't your fault, Parvis."

"I wish I was dead," he said.

Zoey sighed. "That's . . . fair. Still. I don't really want any murdering. I've sort of had enough of blood, I think."

Something like a laugh hiccuped through Parvis's lips.

"God," he said, "join the club."

* * *

 

By that evening, Fiona had managed to find a set of clothes for Strife amongst the ruins. They were charred, covered in dust and smattered with splinters, but they were useable and approximately the correct size.

They were also Rythian's.

Fiona and Zoey, between them, managed to get Strife dressed. The black shirt was too tight across his shoulders, and the trousers were too long, and the white-and-purple coat wouldn't close over his chest, but they were serviceable, and at least stopped him from shivering.

As yet, no one had worked out how to get the collar and chain off. The metal ring had been welded together while it was around his neck. Fiona had rolled the chain up into a ball and given it to Strife to hold. He had clutched it to his chest without hesitation.

He had not spoken again since the afternoon's altercation.

They kept the fire burning all night. Sips stayed awake, stony-faced, keeping watch. Every time Parvis looked at him, he was looking back.

It was clear to everyone that there was only one thing that needed watching.

Nonetheless, Parvis drifted off to sleep sometime after midnight. He'd laid down at the foot of his tree and curled up, pillowing his head on his hands, expecting to lie awake for endless hours. But his eyes had slid closed, and his whirling thoughts had stilled, and sleep had blanketed him sweetly.

He woke suddenly, his heart pounding, his mind swimming with the memory of glowing red eyes.

Someone had gasped, a noise of abject terror. Parvis lay still, staring at the moonlit grass in front of his eyes. His breath came short, and no matter how he tried, he could not calm himself again. He shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. It didn't help.

And then, suddenly, there was a pair of hands fisted in his shirt, and Strife was pressing his forehead to Parvis's chest, and Parvis could feel him shaking, could hear his breath rattling in his throat.

Parvis stiffened, unsure of what to do, paralyzed with guilt and concern. He slid one hand out from under his cheek, intending to put it over Strife's shoulders, to provide whatever comfort he could.

_ "No," _ Strife snarled, yanking on Parvis's shirt.

Parvis put his hand back under his cheek and then tried to hold as still as he could.

Next to him, Strife's shivering slowly damped, until he was steady again, and his breathing settled.

Parvis could only assume that he'd fallen back to sleep. Parvis himself lay awake until dawn, drowning in guilt.

* * *

 

On the third day, Kirin arrived.

He materialized out of thin air, amidst a shower of blue sparks, tall and broad and regal.

Strife hit him like a cannonball.

Kirin toppled over, and Strife came down on top of him, driving his fist down into his face over and over, vicious and relentless.

_ "Where were you?" _ he screamed. Something broke with a nasty  _ crack. "Where were you?!" _

The survivors stared, open-mouthed, frozen in shock.

Gently, Kirin reached up and took Strife's wrist. Strife hit him with his other hand. Kirin caught that one, too.

"Strife," he said quietly. "You're hurting yourself."

"Where the  _ fuck _ were you?" Strife cried. There were tears streaming down his face.

Kirin sat up, moving Strife off of his chest. Bright blue blood was oozing from his nose. He wiped it away on his sleeve.

"I'm sorry, Strife," he said.

Strife tried to wrench his hands free. Kirin let him, and Strife hit him again.

Kirin took the collar in both hands and tugged. With a tortured squeal, the metal tore apart. Kirin tossed it away like so much garbage.

Strife sat back, a marionette with its strings cut. He stared at nothing, sniffling, tears still chasing one another down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Strife," Kirin said again, and his voice was heavy with remorse.

"No," Strife said thickly.

Kirin sighed, hanging his head, and got to his feet. He turned to face the rest of the survivors. His expression was pained.

"I'm sorry," he said to them.

Lomadia got to her feet and stared him down.

"Where," she said, trembling with rage, "the  _ fuck _ . . . were  _ you?" _

"I—" Kirin began. His eyes darted. He rubbed his face.

"I didn't . . . think it was that bad," he admitted. "But I'm here  _ now, _ and I can help—"

"You can fuck off," Nilesy told him.

Kirin recoiled, his eyes widening.

"Ex—excuse me?" he stammered.

Sips got to his feet. His eyes were hard as flint.

"You heard the guy," he said darkly.

"Can we all take a couple potshots?" Lomadia inquired. "You're a god, you can take it, right?"

"Seems only fair," Nilesy remarked, getting to his feet. Lomadia helped him up.

"Somebody go find Nano," Sips suggested. "Bet she could use a good punching bag."

"Okay," Kirin said, raising his hands in surrender. "Okay, you're angry, I understand."

"No you  _ don't," _ Lomadia snapped. "No, you don't, or you would've been here  _ weeks _ ago!"

"I know," Kirin said. "I know, and I'm sorry, but I want to help—I'm here, and I want to help—"

"Do you?" Nilesy asked sweetly, cracking his knuckles. "Then lean down a bit, would you?"

Kirin cast about him. His gaze landed on Zoey and Fiona, sitting apart from the others, hand in hand.

"Look, you two can talk some sense into them, right?" he asked hopefully.

They looked at each other, and then back at him.

"They seem sensible enough to me," Fiona said.

"And they can't really  _ hurt _ you," Zoey added.

Sips was rolling up his sleeves. Lomadia was tying her hair back.

Kirin's roving gaze landed on Parvis.

_ "You _ know I—" he began.

"I hope they rip you to bits," Parvis interrupted.

Kirin licked his lips, then sighed.

"Well," he said. "Clearly I'm doing more harm than good by being here. So I'll . . . just go."

"Coward," Lomadia spat.

He fixed her with a penetrating stare.

"I think I've indulged enough violence already," he said quietly. "Don't you?"

She fidgeted, looking away. Next to her, Nilesy coughed into his hand. Sips had taken a sudden interest in the grass at his feet.

"I really am sorry," Kirin said.

Then there was a shower of blue sparks, and he was gone.

* * *

 

The others had gone off looking for supplies. Parvis was sitting with his back against his tree, staring at the ruins.

Zoey sat down next to him, saying nothing. For a time, there was silence.

"We're going to leave," she said at last. "We're building a really big boat and sailing until we run out of ocean."

Parvis nodded.

"You should come with us," she said.

"I can't," he said.

"Why not?"

"Why  _ would _ I?" he countered, then shrugged. "Thought you'd all want to be rid of me, anyway."

"No," Zoey said. "We'd much rather keep an eye on you."

Parvis went cold, and the sickness coiled in his stomach. He shrank into himself and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"I . . .  _ miss _ him," he said, his voice rusty. He started shivering. "I  _ miss _ him, and I hate it. I hated him, and I'm  _ glad _ he's dead, I wanted him dead for so long and I'm glad he's gone and I  _ miss _ him. I shouldn't. I wish I didn't. I mean—I mean, what kind of a-a-a  _ monster _ do you have to be, to want—to  _ miss _ someone—something—someone who could—who  _ did—" _

"He used to replant the weeds," Zoey said quietly.

Parvis pulled up short. He looked over at Zoey, blinking away the tears. She was looking out over the rubble, chin on her knee, the wind tousling her hair.

"What?" he croaked.

"From the farm. Back at Blackrock. He thought I didn't know, but I did."

A small smile played over her lips. A tear slid down her cheek.

"He would wait until I was doing something else," she continued. "And he'd go pull them out of the compost, as many as he could carry, and he'd go plant them over the hill. You've never seen so many dandelions in your  _ life. _ It was . . . beautiful. I always meant to tell him it was beautiful, but . . . I guess the time was never right."

Parvis stared at her for a long moment before turning his eyes back to the wreckage. He sniffled and wiped his eyes.

"One time he tricked me into taking this  _ huge _ bite out of a raw potato," he said. "It was horrible. He just about laughed himself sick."

Zoey made a noise that was, just barely, a laugh. The two of them lapsed into silence again.

"This is my fault," Parvis said, speaking the words that had been swarming through his head for days. "None of this would've happened if I hadn't turned up with my stupid book and my stupid stubborn . . . stupidity."

"Did you make the first cut?" she asked.

Parvis lowered his eyes.

"No," he admitted, "but I gave him the knife."

"You didn't know what would happen to him," Zoey said. "He did."

He hesitated, then asked, "Then why?"

Zoey scoffed, then sniffled.

"It was a coward's suicide," she spat. "He could've done anything. He could've written. He could've visited. He could've—could've  _ asked _ for help. He could've just—just killed himself like a normal person and we'd all have brought flowers. He could've done  _ anything, _ and he  _ chose _ this, and it's  _ not _ fair!"

She stopped, wiping at her eyes.

Then she repeated, much softer: "It's  _ not _ fair."

The silence came down again, thick and soft as down.

"What now?" Parvis asked.

She shrugged.

"You make a choice," she said. "And you choose better than he did."

Parvis swallowed, and nodded.

"When do we leave?"

* * *

 

The days had passed. The boat had been built. An expedition had gone all the way to Strife's complex and returned with his atomic disassembler and his clothes and a dozen stuffed animals. He hadn't been more than five yards from any of them since. He'd slept with the disassembler clutched to his chest. He had not once looked at Parvis.

He stepped up to Parvis's elbow and considered the ruins with him.

"We're leaving in the morning," he said.

Parvis took a deep breath, nodded. He kept his eyes firmly on the blackened, jagged ground.

"I s'pose you're here to tell me not to come," he said.

Strife snorted. "Hell, no. I'm here telling you that if you run off before then, I'll hunt you down."

Parvis took a moment to process this.

"I'm going to bury him," he said, apropos of nothing.

"Uh," said Strife. "Don't know if you'd noticed, Parvis, but he's pretty damn buried."

He shook his head. "It's not the same."

"If you say so," said Strife.

Parvis shot a glare at him. "When the nightmares start," he said, "and I'm seeing him around every corner,  _ I want to know where to look." _

Strife hesitated, then shrugged. "Like I said. If you say so."

"You've got to be able to understand  _ that, _ at least."

"Parvis, I am repressing as hard as I can, and I'd appreciate your cooperation in the effort, hey?"

Parvis bit back his sharp retort and turned his eyes back to the rubble.

"And. . . ." he said, and sighed. "And I want to think that—that maybe,  _ maybe, _ if I go the way he did, maybe someone will—will bring flowers. That someone will  _ remember _ me, that someone will . . .  _ mourn _ me. Y'know, it's—Here Lies Parvis, it was the magic that killed him, sort of confused the issue that it kept walking his body around for a couple weeks afterwards doing horrible things, but before that he wasn't so bad."

He sniffled, cleared his throat.

"And if I can do that for him," he concluded, "I can at least pretend that someone might do it for me."

Strife sighed, and rolled his eyes, and held out the atomic disassembler. Parvis stared at it.

"When you're done," Strife said, still not looking at him, "you give it back, and then we never speak to each other again. Got it?"

Gingerly, Parvis accepted the disassembler from him.

"Thank you," he said. He started forward, then stopped. "And I'm . . . sorry. I'm sorry for dragging you into this. I'm sorry for what he did to you. I'm sorry for . . . for what  _ I _ did to you. And I know that doesn't fix it, and I know it can't, really,  _ be _ fixed, but—I'm sorry. And I promise you won't hear from me again. I can do that, at least. I'm sorry, Strife. For whatever it's worth."

Strife was silent for a long, long moment. He took a breath and let it out again.

"Jesus, Parvis," he said quietly. "What'd he do to  _ you?" _

Parvis shook his head, and started for the ruins, and said nothing—because there  _ were _ no words for what Rythian had done to him.

Or how much it had hurt.

 

 

**THE END**

 


End file.
